


Early Findings (proto-work)

by thewritehag



Series: Early Findings [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwarf Courting, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fluff, Hobbit Courting, Word Geekery, Yes I'm sneaking Glorfindel in there, bewildered bilbo, fem!Bilbo, flirty thorin, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritehag/pseuds/thewritehag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Thorin Oakenshield was, in fact, a day early, rather than a few hours later than everyone else?</p><p>EDIT: This particular part of this series has been given the "proto-" designation, as in it's the first of this series, but is not the first part. Rather, it is the early stages of a better structured and more evolved work, which will follow hence-forth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love this pairing and I think it would be good to get out of my OC headspace every now and again. 
> 
> This is looking like it may turn into a regular fic, but I don't want to make any promises in case I don't end up delivering something from beginning to end (or beyond the canon "end"). If it does turn into a constant thing, then I can promise a definite messing around with canon, including some inventive BS. 
> 
> I'd love to hear prompts/suggestions, as well as criticisms. 
> 
> I'm also teapotdragon.tumblr.com (nerdery and feminist ranting) or wordsrbricks.tumblr.com (my writing-only blog). Follow me for more jibber-jabber. Thanks!
> 
> Unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King displaced from The Lonely Mountain was ever prompt. It was a point of pride for the dwarf royal.

This night, however, is one that he is certain he will be ever reminded of by those with whom he will travel. Even those he’d never spoken to or met beyond their individual meetings, who subsequently volunteered to join him on his quest to reclaim their homeland, would most likely side-eye him. There would certainly be smirks behind the hands of those he’d known all his life and who’d known him all their lives. Of course, no one would be fool enough to say anything out loud to him. He was not an unkind leader, ruler, or dwarf, but it is unseemly to speak so disrespectfully of one such as him. Especially, when they need not know of his kindness.

His long, lonely travel from the Iron Hills, after an unsuccessful meeting with the other Dwarf Lords (and his kin besides), left Thorin tired and bedraggled. His hot and foul temper was in ascendance as he walked the quaint rode into The Shire, into Hobbiton, then around it and through it, searching for the green door and rune supposedly left by Tharkun. His ire only gaining in strength as he could not find his goal until an hour or two after the sun had gone down behind the rolling hills.

 _Cursed orb_ , he thought as it descended. _If only I were beneath my stone, my rocks, and hear the tremors of the earth as it wakes and slumbers_.

There, in his peripheral, he saw it. Just as he was about to let loose another epithet against the Shire-dwellers and their cozy lives, then turn around to make yet another trek through all of this peaceful greenery that _is hiding what he was supposed to have found hours ago!_ There it was: the rune, lines and angles, glowing blue, engraved in what must be the green door, though it is too dark to make out that much. _Finally._

Thorin began his march up the little hill, to the circular door, behind the abundance of blooms and vines. _Deceitful shrubbery_. His scorn—he hoped—laced each pound of his fist against the green planks.

“Coming—oh!” A voice from inside the hole came, though mingled with a bang and thud of whatever this Baggins hit himself against in his panic to reach his caller. “Bebother it. Coming!” The voice is louder now, just beyond the door, and sounds as if music was making an attempt to enter the dwarf-king’s sore mood.

“Oh, well, hello,” the hobbit said. _Not a ‘he,’ after all_ , Thorin remarked, then his thoughts became lost as he looked on the tiny female, _honey and cherries_ flowed perversely through his mind as his gaze moved over her form.

“Um, yes…I suppose I might have some,” said the woman, taking him in then inspecting around him.

“I said that out loud,” Thorin said. It wasn't a question, but he did hope that, perhaps, this particular thought might have stayed in his mouth. The woman cocked her head, her lips formed a sweet smile as though she were confused and not trying to laugh at the poor stranger on her doorstep.

“Yes,” she said. “And, you said that last bit, too," guessing his thoughts, _How?_ was all he could think until she continued. "Now, how can I help you?” She straightened herself and her thoughts, as if remembering that this is, indeed, a complete stranger at her door. A large one, at that.

“I apologize,” Thorin said as he removed his cloak and entered the home, quite misinterpreting the look of shock on the woman’s face as he moved past her. “I’m quite a bit later than I thought. If not for the mark,” he gestured to the still open door behind him, “I might never have found it. You’re little town is quite a maze.”

“Excuse me!” Her blush and bluster were adorable, he noted with amusement, however Thorin’s expression would never betray that. His muscles were trained never to give away any emotion besides those of intimidation or consternation. _Or constipation_ , Thorin had heard his eldest sister-son mutter during such training. “Late?” her voice, higher and higher it went, snapped him from his reverie. “Late for what exactly?! Who are you?!”

Thorin continued down the hall, after hanging his cloak up on one of the pegs lining the wall, towards the smell of dinner. _Lovely_ , as was his host. Though, now that he thought of it, where is this Master Baggins he was promised by the wizard? He was about to turn and ask it of the comely little woman, except he must shake himself of these thoughts--she was someone else’s wife or, _perhaps his daughter, a sister?--_ his hopeful thoughts were again interrupted by the hobbit woman. Her steps outstripped his, her body curved around his bulk, and blocked his path just outside the portal to the dining room. Her little finger jabbed in the center of his chest. Her eyes, blue as the sky when the day sank to evening, sparked as if with stars.

“Who are you?” He said before any words could come from her open mouth.

“Who am I?” She sputtered and jabbed her finger into his chest again, harder. His breathing stuttered with it. _So lovely_. “Who am I?!”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head once more. _More control_. “I’m here for a meeting of my brethren to recruit and make account of one Master Baggins. Though,” he looked away from her passion, lustrous and captivating as it was, when he noted the absence of any of the other dwarrow. Nor did he hear any, “I cannot make any account of my companions,” his voice turned up with a question, then looked back to her as if she could answer it.

“That is because there are none here!” She said, all but shouted, and shoved him to no avail, “No one but me!”

“And, who are you?” He asked again, with a smile, letting his mask fall for her.

“No,” she said, crossing her arms and shaking her curls. _Honey and cherries_. “No, we don’t play that game. You knocked on my door, you caused some vandalism--I just had it painted last week!--Who are you?!”

“My manners and, again, my apologies. Thorin, son of Thrain,” he intoned in his deepest baritone, “at your service,” looking up from beneath his brow, “milady.”     

He straightened and noted her flushed cheeks and hand—her left hand, there is no ring—held at her breast. There were no braids but for the long tail keeping her curls in place. _Hobbits may not use rings or braids_ , but he smiled just the same, forgetting his anger and his confusion at his absent companions. He straightened, keeping his eyes on hers, and raised his brow expectently for her reciprocal address.

“Oh, um,” pausing in her annoyance to give way to befuddlement. She cleared her throat, and bobbed a curtsy. “Bilba Baggins, at yours. For the moment,” she said as she flattened her hands over her skirts and looked him in the eye.

“Bilba,” Thorin whispered. Could he have misheard Gandalf? Surely, it was ‘Bilbo.’ “Do you have a husband?”

“And, our moment is up!” She said, her eyes flying wide and blush, somehow, deepening and reaching her hairline. “The door is there and you will go through it! Goodnight and goodbye, ‘Son of Thrain!’”

“Or a brother?” He said as loudly as he could without frightening the wom--Bilba.

“No,” she replied. Her body and tone slumping with the word. “I am alone. As alone as I can be. But,” she said and regained her momentum, “that does not mean I need the company of prying, rude men. Or," she said and squared her shoulders, "that I am left defenseless.”

Thorin blinked at her and did go to the front door. He heard her beginnings of a sigh of relief turn into a harsh hiss when he did not go out of it and away from her. And, instead, he shut the door, made sure the bolt was secure, and walked past her and further into her home to find what his One had made for her dinner.

They would make do for two.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your notes and kudos are so lovely, such a boost to my worn ego, thank you! Now, don't be too smug, but you all convinced me to keep things moving. I don't know how far and fast this will go, but I've got a few ideas. 
> 
> As always, criticisms, prompts, and suggestions are welcome. Thank you!

Thorin had been rattling around her kitchen, then settled in the dining room, or so Bilba could only assume from the sounds. Born and raised in Bag End gave her the insight to its ins and outs, as it would anybody. And, because of her love of reading and more money than Eru, she remodeled the place with a few hidden alcoves, hallways, and doors. The Shire is a cake-walk,  _sometimes literally during festival time_ , compared to her labyrinth of a smial.

Using her hidden tricks, she was able to pick up her favorite cast-iron skillet with such sprite quickness, Thorin wouldn’t have been able to see her had he been thoughtful enough to be looking, then disappeared again into the halls disguised by walls. When she felt it was a long enough time, she came out in the same hallway he left her in. His back was turned to her, sitting at the head of her table. _The nerve!_

She crept behind him, her large feet muffling her step, _That’s why they’re so large and we’re so small, for goodness’ sake_ , paused a half-step away, watched the back of his head, unknowing of what was about to happen to it, reared her arms and skillet back, paused again to take on the weight and new position, then swung with all the force her little body could muster.

The metal and Thorin’s rock-head collided in a beautiful clanging thud, his forehead landed with a wincing finality on her wooden table that Bilba could only appreciate so much as she lost her balance on the follow-through and nearly toppled. When she recovered from her near-fall, she had to stop herself in the middle of her celebratory jig to catch her ironware from falling on her beautiful _freshly polished_ wooden floors and, of course, to make sure Thorin was breathing.

After settling the skillet down, she carefully drew closer and leaned her pointed ear in close to his nose, which was slightly smooshed into the tabletop. Holding her own breath, she waited, and breathed out when she could detect a soft wafting of his hair from his own exhale. To be safe, she checked his pulse and it was thrumming a healthy beat. His skin was warm and smooth. _Stop that!_ she scolded herself when she noted her fingers stopped checking for signs of life and caressed the visible portion of his neck and then moved to trace his ear. _As if you’ve never seen a male. Silly woman._

Turning her attention to her surroundings, as alien as they felt with this over-large being near her, she was still in her own home, and she was able to see whatever he must have changed while he was rummaging and she was stalking. _Not much_. All she saw was that he had plated some of her roasted beef and potatoes, then left it to sit just a little beyond where his head landed. He must have been waiting for her. _I almost feel bad._

She then ran for rope and, as she’s tying his legs and arms to the chair, he began to come to with a groan. To put some space between herself and the dwarf— _Thorin Oakenshield_ —she got up to put some water on. _If having a large dwarf tied to one of my chairs isn’t reason enough for a calming pot of tea, then the beverage has lost its purpose and my entire life-philosophy will crumble and the world beside it._

Bilba moved back to the same spot she was when she check his pulse _and oggled him_. She marvelled at how he began rallying so quickly and how there was no blood on his head that she could see. She picked up her skillet, holding onto the handle with one hand and cradeling the head of it to her breast with the other.

Really, she didn’t want to hurt him, but she has no idea what he wants and why he’s here. The tall form of a wizard meandered through her thoughts and she rolled her eyes at the memory of him interrupting her reverie and pipe a few days previous. _Well_ , she thinks, _the ropes should keep him still and Gandalf is probably keeping me from calling on the rangers. Master Oakenshield will certainly owe him a thanks._

Slowly, Thorin came to, straightened his back and raising his head. His eyes settled on Bilba when he opened them, and smiled dazedly at her. She was standing nearby but not near enough for his liking. His gaze sharpened on her—as if his brain had not been slammed around the inside of his skull a few moments ago—and her rather large skillet, his smile turning almost feral even in his bound state.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, her sweet voice a stark contrast to the scowl she wore, “bodily injury and turning captive are part of dwarven courtship?”

Thorin took a moment to process what she said and that she was holding onto a cooking impliment. _Smart, very smart_ , he mused, _and strong._

“Maybe not courtship,” he replied in feign consideration, looking at the ceiling before shifting his ever-blue eyes onto hers, “But, foreplay…”

“Listen, you!” She said and slammed her ironwork on the table, surely cracking it. _Bilba you idiot_. “You’re going to answer my questions and maybe I’ll let you keep your handsome face intact before sending for the rangers. 

“You think me handsome?” His countenance took on the bearing of a tween at a party.

“No,” she huffed. “But, I can see that you do. Now,” she walked away and sat at the other end of the table—Thorin looked bereft at the distance—keeping her hand on the skillet handle while the rest of it sat on the tabletop, “you will tell me why you’re here, why you entered my home without my leave, why you think that is a completely appropriate thing to do, and how—because I’m sure he has something to do with it—you know Gandalf-The-Soon-To-Be-A-Gray-Corpse?

Thorin’s thought turned to a similar track as when he first met her. He smiled and wished she were closer. _Once these knots come undone…_

“I don’t normally like being interrogated, but from such a pretty jailer…” Thorin trailed off with a smirk and cocked brow. Her grip tightened on the skillet and he coughed. “As to the first and last of your questions, I believe the same answer will suffice,” at this he straightened as much as the ropes would let him. “I and twelve other dwarrow are travelling east to regain our home, my kingdom, Erebor. The Lonely Mountain. The Last and Greatest of the Dwarven Kingdoms.”

“You do like your titles,” Bilba muttered before he could continue. Thorin’s eyes narrowed at her.

“And,” he continued a little louder, “the wizard promised me a burglar, one Master Bilbo Baggins. Or,” he said almost only to himself “‘Bilba,’ apparently. It’s possible I misheard him.”

“Perhaps you were hallucinating,” she said and called his attention back to her. His short burst of anger subsided and ebbed into a somehow heated pleasure at her presence and tone. “There is no ‘Bilbo,’ hasn’t been for generations. And, I am no burglar.”

“No,” he agreed. “And, you will not become one. I will not allow harm to come to you.” All teasing and smolder dissipated, his eyes burning into her. The minutes after his declaration extended, the air around them thick and electric, eye-contact not breaking.

“Well,” she said, her voice faint, finally looking away. The kettle whistled causing her to jump and scurry over to the other side of the kitchen, finally releasing her weapon. “What happens to me is hardly up to you or Gandalf, is it?”

It did put her closer to him, but she felt quite safe. _Those knots are good, if I do say so myself. Mother would be proud at how I remembered and used them to keep myself safe. Father, too, keeping the home safe and managing to be mannerly, though, quite possibly perversely so in this case._ Bilba was lost in her musings, fixed one mug of tea and set it down next to the _cold and getting colder_ roast, then turned back to fix the other.

She was also lost to the movement of one dwarf king. The actions of whom, it would appear, revealed just how at home he felt in the little hobbit hole and with the little hobbit who called it home, when he stood up from his chair and bindings—long since unbound—and came behind Bilba. He waited until she was done pouring the scalding water into the second mug, smiling at her consideration, to wrap his arms around her, effectively pinning her arms, then pulled her into his chest.

She was unresisiting, her body stiff, this time he knows it is from shock. The fact only confirmed more so when she began struggling and kicking at his shins and ramming the back of her head into his chest, all while he shuffled backwards to the chair and sits, waiting for her to abate and tire herself out. He waited through her twisting, jerking, and heavy breathing.

“Ouch,” she said, when she was calm enough to process what had just happened. She made to move her arm, possibly to rub the back of her head where she struck, not his face as she had hoped, but his chestplate beneath his shirt. Once she was calm enough, he loosened his grip just enough for her adjust to where he was going to insist she get used to being while they ate.

Moving around and shifting in his own turn, he her arms go and move out of their confined position. He pulled the remembered plate of food closer, then reached for her mug of tea to sit within reach.

“How did you get out of my ropes?” she asked, finally breaking this new silence. “I’m a very good knot tyer. Best in The Shire, I expect.”

“They were very good knots,” Thorin agreed. “How did you learn to do them?”

“My mother. She learned from the Rangers who learned from the elves. Wait a moment,” she said, remembering her original question and that she was now a captive herself. As much as she was able, she turned in her seat to face him. Her cheeks red and eyes flashing. “Don’t you wave your strawman in my face. How did you get out of my knots?”

His eyes raked over her face again, her honey and cherry hair, flushing cheeks, flashing blue eyes, seeing her as if anew. His breath quickened and he felt as if he could not get enough air.

“You may be a very good knot tyer,” he said when he was able. He did manage a chuckle at her expression of growing rage. It helped that she had swatted at his chest, _with little force_ , he noted. His face lowered to hers, noses touching, his voice lowering with it “but I am a very good un-tyer.”

“I can’t say I’m happy about this,” she said, knocking his forehead slightly with her own. She meant it as some sort of posturing, he had to remind himself, _as playful as it seems._ He cupped her cheek in his right hand. 

“I need you to see that I will not harm you,” his voice, still quiet, but felt as a boom in her mind.

She searched his face a moment, noting the lines around his eyes and on his forehead. The length and angle of his nose. The dark light in his eyes, storm and calm all at once.

“I can tell you won’t,” she said and, feeling bold ( _Tookish_ , she thought), she traced a finger along the bridge of his nose, his lips. He smiled beneath her inspection, though he had to restrain himself from kissing the tips of her delicate digit. “You already would have if you meant to.”

She dropped her hand in her lap, folding it together with the other one, and looked him in his eyes. Her composure unnerved him; there was no trace of ire, nor of guile. 

“The ropes seemed redundant,” he said, trying again to be romantic. “I’m already held captive by you.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. He smiled and carefully squeezed her middle. She sat straight, not rigid, but unyielding. She sat and waited.

“I already told you why I’m here,” he continued and sighed.

“Not all. Why are you here?” She emphasized the last word.

“To enjoy your hospitality, obviously,” he said. “You may have tied me up, but you like me enough to make me, your hostage, something to drink.”

“You don’t know,” she said petulantly, looking away from him, and leaned around to pull the plate of _cold as stone_ food closer. “I might have chosen to poison you. Or, used the boiling water to extract answers from you if the ones I got weren’t satisfactory.”

“Ah, yes,” he said and snugged her closer to his chest. “I didn’t answer your other questions.”

She picked up the mug of tea and glanced at him over the mug when she drank. He answered her wry smile with one of his own.

They are well matched, as Ones always are, though it shocks him at the rightness of it. It will become something slow and implied for her. Thorin doesn’t know much of hobbits, but he does know they are a subtle and more thoughtful people. _She is certainly more delicate and graceful than I._

He also reached over and pulled some of the meat apart, and made her an offering of it after she set her tea back down. She took it, tore it in two, and gave him one half. They did not talk, but they managed a silent exchange. Thorin knew she was guaging him while all he could do was enjoy this feeling. He knew that it would be necessary to actually get to know her beyond being his other-half, _There’s no time now_.

So they sat quietly, each taking food for themselves, Thorin almost always offering her some of his and took it as a good sign that she accepted each morsel. _Hobbit manners, perhaps?_ Though she had yet to share her own or pick something up for him. But, when she took a carmelized carrot and gave it to him, he felt he could attempt conversation that matched the intimacy he was feeling.

“One of your questions, I remember,” he said, forking a piece of potato and continued before putting it in his mouth, “was about why I entered your home without your permission.”

“It was,” she replied, taking the fork from him and picked a piece of meat for herself.

“The answer is actually the same to your second question and, ultimately, your final one that you asked before I snatched you from your good-manners and/or poisoning,” he said.

She put the fork down and faced him as much as possible, but kept her hands clasped on her own lap.

“And, an answer I’m not sure you will believe,” he continued. “But, I’m hoping that, from our close proximity of the last few minutes, you will at least be open to it.”

He shifted a little, and thought he was prepared to keep talking. A few seconds passed and Bilba looked at him with a questioning brow lofted. Crinkles forming there when he still hadn’t said anything.

“Well, I might be,” she prompted. He laughed a breath and shook his head slightly at her frankness.

“Dwarves,” he started, flexing his hands at her waist. “Dwarrow…”

“Yes, I understand they’re synonyms,” her voice taking leading and teasing at once.

“We have what we call, in Westron, that is,” he said in a rush, cutting off anything else she might have prepared during his internal struggle, “Ones.”

“Ones? As in…?” She said, “One what?”

“No, no,” he felt more at ease, at least having said the first and, oddly, hardest part. _Explaining it should go smoother. She seems like an academic sort_. “‘Ones,’ as in my One. You, Bilba Baggins. Are my One. My other-half.”

She inhaled a gigantic breath and let it out slowly, in an attempt to sooth her panic. Her eyes as large as the saucers she had decorating the walls of her dining room, taking him in again.

“That’s,” she coughed. “That’s nice. Thank you. I am flattered,” she patted his shoulders and shifted as if about to spring away. “I think it’s time to go to sleep now. Yes, sleep. I won’t tie you up, I promise.” She made as if she was about to take that leap, but Thorin tightened his grasp and she heaved a large sigh through gritted teeth.

“I’m not mad, Bilba,” he hooked a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his eye. “I felt it exactly when I saw you. Everything I had been feeling before—anger, frustration, confusion at how such a small little place could be so twisted and mangled enough to cause an excellent tracker and hunter like myself—” Bilba scoffed and Thorin through her a, admittedly amused, glare “—fled out of my brain when you opened the door and I looked down at you. I couldn’t help but come inside your home and take care of you.”

“Dwarven hind-brain?” She suggested.

He growled and she laughed. She felt more at ease during and after his confession. Bilba could see his sincerity and that he truly believed all that he was saying. It’s intimidating, and too much to take in all at once.

She knew she may never know what to make of it, but she would be hardpressed to deny that she felt a sort of odd…balance with him. She will certainly be more shocked later that she wasn’t more shocked while she was sitting in his lap, against his chest. It was comfortable, _Almost better than my easy chair by the fire._   

“I know hobbits don’t have such a thing, or something so easily defined,” he said to bring her attention back to him.

“Well,” she drew out and smacked at his hands when they tightened. _That tickles._ “Not something ‘so easily defined,’ no, but it’s not an unknown concept. We have love and many believe in soulmates, so it’s not so odd.”

“Soulmate,” Thorin said the word as if testing it, then focused on her again. “Do you believe in them?”

“I suppose,” her voice lilted as if in part-question. “I believe my parents were soulmates, certainly. But, I don’t believe in it as a sort of ‘fate.’ More as a choice. I believe my parents chose to be each other’s ‘Ones,’ as you would say.”

“So, I must convince you.”

Lolling her head from side to side slowly, Bilba let her thoughts roll around. She sighed.

“This is very weighty,” she said finally. “We’ve only just met, Master Oakenshield.”

“Thorin,” he said and cupped her cheek once more, allowing his thumb to caress the apple of it. “Please.”

“Thorin,” she nodded and smiled faintly. “It would be better—for you as well as me—to get to know one another, as people. As friends.”

He sighed heavily, “And, now to answer your final question, Bilba.”

“‘Final?’” She asked, perplexed at his abrupt change of topic. “I believe you’ve answered them all.”

“No, when you were fixing the tea, remember? You asked if I thought it was up to me or the wizard what happens to you.”

“Ah, yes,” she rolled her eyes. “That was rhetorical. The answer was implied: it isn’t. It will only ever be up me.” She patted his cheeks patronizingly. “And, here I thought you were clever.”

“I am exceptionally clever, though I can see how I would seem dull in comparison to you,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. She pinched his cheek. _This is very easy, being with him._

“Twelve other dwarrow are coming here and,” he paused, looking up at nothing in particular, seeming to count in his head, “by tomorrow night, by my reckoning. We are going on an adventure, a quest, to unseat a fire-drake from our home, Erebor. We need a burglar and Gandalf suggested one. Now that I know that the one he meant is, in fact, my One, we will find another individual.”

“And, what then? You would send another in my place? What do you need a burglar for? And, wait a moment, ‘by your reckoning?’ By your reckoning of the past however long,” she gestulated in the air, “you were late tonight.”

“Perhaps it is fate that I came to you early,” he whispered, staring at her mouth. She cleared her throat and poked him in the ribs. He took her hint and continued while looking into her eyes, “We need someone to go into the hoard and retrieve the gift of my—Durin’s—line. The Arkenstone. It is what will give me the divine right to rule. I will not send you. Yes, I will send another. When our quest is complete, I will return for you.”

Bilba sat for many long minutes looking at him. Thorin, after a moment, took the opportunity that her contemplation allowed him to stroke her back and run his fingers through the ends of hair. _I can set a braid before I go, if she will allow it_.

She was quiet for so long that even her body gave up on her composure and she slumped into his chest. He folded her into his arms and sat. He was about to get up and find a more comfortable place for them to rest when she inhaled sharply. 

“I think it’s time to go to bed,” she sat up in his embrace. “In the morning, I’ll go to the market—you can come with me, if you like—and we’ll get enough food and drink for your friends. Let me show you your room.”

Then she popped out of his arms, she was able without his objection, so stunned was he.

“Bilba,” he said and caught her hand. He allowed her to draw him up and lead him down the hall and into another one. “Bilba, I—what do you think of all that I said? You were so quiet after.” 

“I thought of a lot of things, but nothing that can be resolved until I’ve gotten more information,” she looked up at him when she stopped in front of a door to open it. “Make yourself at home—you have my permission this time—and if you need me, my room is just down the hall a ways,” she pointed to the door at the very end. “There’s a washroom inside. I hope you don’t mind that I gave you Gandalf’s usual room. I’m not sure he will deserve a comfortable rest when he arrives. The bed is a little taller and longer, but as you are not such a small being as I, I doubt it will put you out much.”

He smiled and squeezed the hand he still had. Letting his hand go with a squeeze of her own, she then leaned up slightly to plant a small kiss on his chin and turned to walk as fast as she could without running to her room. She didn’t look back, though she did call a ‘goodnight’ to him before she shut the door behind her.

Thorin stood watching after her, even after her door clicked closed, his smile still on his face spread and held until his cheeks hurt. He sighed and went into the room. _There is much to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr, I'm crazy and opinionated: http://capesandteapots.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot? Plot. You know, I think I've heard of that.

Bilba couldn’t sleep, though she tried. She stared at the ceiling as she laid in bed thinking and rethinking. The spell—how else can you describe being comfortable and ‘at home’ in the embrace of a complete stranger?—was broken after she shut the door to her room and _leaving Thorin with the option of a walk-about and a kiss_. _There is much to be done_ , she thought and pushed back her covers.  
Her study had two entry points (four, actually, but only two that were visible): one that breaks from the hall that her bedroom was at the end of, and the other in her bedroom itself. Her study would be thought small by one of the tall-folk’s reasoning, but the information and knowledge held therein was expansive.

Books and maps of every sort were shelved and stacked against the walls and on her desk. Her more recent acquisitions were placed on the easy chair that sat opposite the one she normally occupied to relax, take her evening tea, enjoy her pipe, and enjoy the adventures only a good tome can offer. Her book collection varied from history to adventure, and scholarly reports to mystery.

Bilba, as quietly as she could manage, went through her collection of histories and lore, gathering up anything and everything she could find that might have had some information regarding dwarves, Erebor, dragons, and, well, practical adventuring. She hadn’t made up her mind about going, not at all, but it was up to her to decide. And, everything Thorin had told her was shocking and enormous, yet he really said nothing at all. She needed to do her own research.

The hours peetered by, from early-early morning, to early morning, then to dawn. The sun’s first beams over the rolling hills shot through her window, muffled somewhat by the drapes adorning, had caused her to look up from _thankfully the last_ book she was reading and the notes she was making in one of her many (many, many) blank journals.

From her arduous self-edification, she was able to learn about the dwarves of Erebor and more particularly about the one sleeping in one of her guest rooms. What was written about all the dwarves was sparse—they are a very secretive people—and the information about one particular Dwarf Lord even more so. She did learn, however, that he and all those he was able to lead away from the ‘Desolation’ had been forced to wander for over a century. Bilba’s heart broke at that, for, because of her great love of reading of all kinds, she held great empathy with those who lived in the inks and pages of her books. She never had dreamed of meeting such a hero in her real life.

Shutting the last book, she got up and stretched a little, yawned, popped her toes against her hardwood floor, and moved back to her room to get cleaned up and changed. As she went, she planned her next course of action. She must go visit Hamfast Gamgee, her gardener, and tell him about the what’s, who’s, and wherefore’s of what suddenly occurred the night previous.

She would also ask him to deliver a missive to the Thain—which, when she thought of _that_ , she went back to her study and penned a letter, detailing everything which would have been better to tell him in person. Afterwards, she would cook a breakfast for herself and Thorin.

She left her home through another set hallways, bypassing the one that lead to the bedrooms and the main one leading to her door. Hamfast did not live overly far, as far as such a small community goes. She estimated that her trip would take her only a few minutes, especially if Hamfast was out puttering around his garden. She sincerely hoped he was. She wasn’t sure how this “One” business worked, as some of the lore accounts varied to merely “being in love” to “knowing where one’s One is at all times.”

She didn’t take much stock in such an extreme idea, but she was relieved, when looking over her shoulder from time-to-time, that Thorin wasn’t out looking for her. _Although, he might just be laying in wait for when I come home._ That thought had Bilba planning to go through her secret hallways, walls, and doors again. _Living in a hill does have its advantages. Why the other hobbits don’t take the same course of action is baffeling._

Hamfast was, indeed, in his garden pruning, plucking, and pulling at some of his shrubbery.

“Hello, Miss Bilba,” he said when she had appeared just outside his gate. “Will you come in? I’m sure the missus has something lovely and warm for snacking.”

“Oh, no thank you, Hamfast,” she replied, inwardly cringing at the title he insisted on using with her. He and his wife were the closest beings to true friends she had, who werent an ungainly wizard or were at all related, _Barring Prim and Drogo, of course._ “I will need to be returning home soon, I’ve found that I have company and—”

“The dwarf, ma’am?” He guessed.

“Erm, yes? You know about him?”

“I expect everyone does, Miss Bilba,” Hamfast said, his voice and movement becoming agitated. “There he was, big hulking mass, stalking up and down and around the entire Shire. Everyone was watching him from their windows. I heard him once or twice, ma’am, cursing up something ugly about our gardens and greenery.”

“Hmm,” Bilba was thinking. That did not describe Thorin as she knew him, _But, who else could it be?_ She shrugged at her own musing when Hamfast spoke again.

“Why do you have him?”

“Hamfast!” Bilba’s voice came with a startled laugh, “He’s not some wild beast. He came by on an errand from Gandalf and may be in need of my help and I intend to do what I can. In fact,” she said and pulled the letters from her pockets. “I was hoping either you or your son could run this letter to the Thain? I need to inform him of my guest and any possible changes that may occur at Bag End for the next little while.”

“Changes?” Hamfast sounded dubious, his eyes narrowing at the letter Bilba gave him, though he took willingly.

“Yes, changes. I may be required to leave the Shire for sometime and Bag End in the hands of a worthy and capable tenant. That possibility is discussed in that particular letter, as well as this one,” she handed another one to him. “If I do go, Hamfast, I will need you to stay in Bag End for me, to tend it, and keep pests out.”

“No. No, Miss Bilba,” he said, shaking his head. “I shan’t take over Bag End even for a minute. You will not be leaving, you can’t!”

“Hamfast, please listen,” Bilba sighed. “If I do go, I need to do what I can to protect my home. There are only so many people I can trust to help me do that. You are one of them. And,” she said, tapping the second letter which sat on top of the first in the gardener’s hand, “Primula and Drogo Baggins. You see, Hamfast, you are a little predictable. I would like you and my dearest cousins to be co-tenants to Bag End, should I leave it. I’ll tell you tonight if I do end up going anywhere. Nothing’s set in stone, my good man.”

Bilba waited a few minutes while Hamfast processed her requests. _They would never be orders, though he may see them a little in that light_. He puffed out a few breaths, and she became momentarily distracted at how they looked vaguely like pipe smoke in this early morning air. _My pipe would be a boon_.

“Very well, Miss Bilba,” he said finally. “I’ll go myself. My lad’s a good boy, but a task such as this would be better done by me.”

Bilba smiled and nodded her agreement.

“Thank you, Hamfast. I promise you, I’ll be back tonight to tell you of my decisions. This all may be for naught, afterall.”

“True enough, but I’ll see you at Bag End about any reply the Thain may send back and to talk to you about your garden.”

“That sounds fine, Hamfast, thank you, again.” She pulled him into a hug and left, pausing to wave goodbye to him.

Returning home, entering through her secret door, she remembered her journal that she spent all night and morning outlining everything she would attempt to get clarification about and take Thorin to task on concerning his indecent manners of the night previous— _Nevermind my overall reaction to it_ —and went to retrieve them from her study.

When she exited the room, she gasped to see Thorin leaving his. He turned at the noise and gave her a look of surprise. Pleased, though it was.

“Good morning, ghivashel,” he greeted and extended his hand expectantly.

Bilba looked at him, flabbergasted at first, charmed a little, then chose to become staunch in her resolve to not melt _this time_. She held her journal closer to her chest as if it could act as a barrier.

“Now, now, I might not know your language, but I can tell that was a bit forward. Or, is that just how dwarrow are?” She said then walked past him, edging around him a little so as to not be caught _so easily_. “I will make breakfast, you will sit, and you will listen and answer every question I have,” she said, then stopped at the end, turned and looked at him. “And, you. will. not. touch.” Then continued around the corner.

Thorin smirked then followed. To show his willingness to comply, he said nothing and sat at his previous place at the table. He could hear her bustle in the connected kitchen, and noted that she did not say he could not look. He leaned in his chair, then the chair itself, back to watch as much as he could. The sway of her hips, the swishing fabric of her skirts, and the shake of her curls with her movements. He did not notice how far back he was going until he lost his balance and crashed to the ground.

The seconds of teetering, arms flailing, and harsh contact with the floor gave Thorin a bruised shoulder and a feeling of wistullness as he recalled the events of last night. He smiled at the memories and made to get up when he saw a pair of furred feet in his line of sight. Looking up, there was Bilba Baggins with a look of concern and a lovely blush on her cheeks.

“That floor better not be scratched,” she said after a moment and went back to the kitchen.

He righted the chair and noticed a leather book near the center of the table. As he was about to go and take a closer look at it, Bilba came through the door with two plates piled high with eggs, bacon, and sausages, which she set down, and went back for two bowls of strawberries. Thorin went to sit in his formally occupied seat when she stopped him.

“Nope,” she said and pointed to the chair just to the right of it. “You will sit there and I will sit here,” she indicated the chair directly to the left of the table’s head and arranged the plates, bowls, and utensils she had stowed in her skirt pockets. _Everything should have pockets_ , she remembered her mother’s oft said mantra from the nights she was stiching in squares of fabric to pillows and her’s and Bilba’s skirts.

“Now,” she said after everything was placed and he had sat down, “what would you like to drink? I have milk, apple juice, or water. It’s too early for beer or ale, I don’t care what those dwarrow culture books say.”

“‘Dwarrow culture books’—?” Thorin started.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Bilba interrupted. “No talking until clarification and/or an answer is required.” She looked at him pointedly while his brain was processing the how an outsider could know anything about dwarrow culture, let alone know enough to write a book about it for another outsider to actually have it in their possession. And, how that all mixed in with what kind of drink he might like verses what bevvy he might actually need.

“I’ll let you process all that,” she said and proceeded back into the kitchen. “It certainly won’t be the last little surprise you receive along those lines this morning,” she called to him.

She returned carrying two glasses of milk and placed one before him, then settled down in her own seat, pulled her little journal closer to almost touching her plate, and began eating. He was watching her, staring at her, his mouth agape and food untouched.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said when she noticed. “Do dwarrow have a sort of custom, like praying, before eating?”

Thorin blinked, closed his mouth that he just realized was hanging open as if to catch flies, and picked up his fork. He looked as if he was trying to remember how to use it, then stabbed one of his eggs. The partially cooked yolk oozed over his bacon.

“Hobbits aren’t so formal about food,” she said, knowing full well what her nonchalance was doing to him. _See how he likes it_ , she thought when she bit into a sausage. He winced and cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m sorry for being so demanding this morning. I suppose that’s one thing about us hobbits when it comes to food. We don’t care for interruptions.” She held his eyes a second longer than he was comfortable with, then took a drink of her milk.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I know anything about your culture?” She continued. He nodded and took a breath as if to demand how she _could possibly know anything?! Ours is guarded! Secret!_

“I have many books,” she cut off his impending bluster. “Lots and lots. Even some, as you are clearly outraged about, are about dwarves. Not so many, don’t worry. Much of which, I have to assume, is speculation and myth. For instance, I can’t say I accept the notion that when you, Master Oakenshield, will die, your flesh will become stone and your blood will dry into veins of rubies. Because,” she said quickly to cut off another possible tyrade rising in him, “surely none of your burial plots, kingdoms, or, indeed, people would be safe from plunder and captivity. So, no, I don’t know everything. I have to induce and deduce much from what I’ve read,” she said, patting her journal, “and from your reactions to what I say.”

“So,” she stopped, regarded him a moment, and sighed. “I think I can relent a little. You’ve been as polite as I’ve allowed you to be, this morning, at least. So,” she said again, “let us speak with the hopes of getting to know one another. I remember what you said last night. But, I will not, cannot, just accept your declaration of ‘Oneness,’ Thorin. I need to learn as much as I can about you and I need you to know as much about me as you can, even if you don’t feel you need to or even want to.”

Thorin waited, regarding her and her earnest speech, and lifted his brow in question.

“Yes,” she rolled her eyes. “You can talk to me know.”

“Thank you,” he said. Ignoring her devious collection of dwarven information for the moment, he continued, “Of course I want to know you. I ache to know you. It’s not natural for us, even after finding our One, to not establish a relationship. I am a dwarf. Solid structure and firm foundations apply to more than literal buildings. There’s more to it than just the ‘spark of realization’ that happens upon meeting our One in order to make a happy, succesful life together,” he paused and breathed a heavy sigh. “There just isn’t time for us.” 

“I remember you saying that, too,” she said. “I’m sure you remember my own reply to your belief you have any right in what I do or don’t do?”

“I recall that I wish to keep anything from happening to you, anything harmful. And, that I would return for you.”

“Yes, yes,” she waved her hand in dismissal. “That’s all well and good, but what good is that promise if you can’t come back? What if you die? What if you find you can’t return for a common hobbit-lady when you have a grand kingdom to rebuild? What if you change your mind?” She took a second to breath and to let those questions be heard. “You see? There are too many questions and not enough time here, in Bag End, to discuss them.”

“But,” she said, again forestalling him. “I won’t _not_ have those questions answered by some bloody upstart of a king,” she said pointing at him, “who comes in and decides to muck up my life with his declarations of love and promises of swash-buckling do-goodery that I can only guess at because you won’t let me see them for myself.”

“So,” he said, after a minute of trying to stifle his laughter, “what do you propose, Bilba?”

“The normal thing,” she replied. “Ask questions, answer them truthfully, talk about ourselves, hide nothing, which would include our respective reasonings and personalities.”

“That is fair,” he said, “given that you’ve hidden nothing of your own eccentricities just now. What was that about ‘swash-buckling’ and ‘do-goodery?’ Besides your unseemly acquired books on a secret and honorable race, what other tomes do you possess?” He asked with mirth flowing beneath his words and questions. “Or,” he said now with a hint of seriousness, “who have you been spending time with?”

“Oh,” her voice pitching high up, folding her arms over her chest, a smile threatening to break through, “that’s rich! Who are you to question? For all I know, you’re some con-man! A gigalo, looking to seduce me and take all that I have to my name, including my good name and virtue!”

There was a beat that they just looked at each other’s tightly pursed lips and ever-reddening faces until they both broke down in unrestrained laughter. When they subsided a few minutes later, Thorin took a dram of calming milk. _Milk,_ he thought and shook his head.

“I think, based on our ease with one another,” he said, “you can induce or deduce that I am neither con-man nor gigalo, and am, Thorin. Just Thorin. Not even a king in your eyes and I wouldn’t change that. I like this, Bilba.”

“I do, too,” she smiled. “I like not being a ‘Miss’ or ‘ma’am,’ for once. But, there is much still that we need to discuss.”

“I have two nephews, Bilba,” Thorin said. “I helped raise them and I trained them both in matters of war and statescraft. Questions and mischief was and still does abound when they are near,” he added with a wink. “I will endure.”

“I have upwards of thirty cousins. And counting,” she replied. “I have been, along with them, trained to ask questions to further our own education and establish valuable allies. My first word, Master Oakenshield, was ‘Why?’” she picked up a rasher of bacon and used it in salute, as a promise, “I will assail.”

“Please, then,” he waved his hand imperiously.

“Let’s finish breakfast first, then, we can move to my parlor to talk. I’d like to formulate exactly what I’d like to say first.”

“I will take the same opportunity to prepare any possible defenses and questions of my own.”

“I’m sure,” she grinned.

Their breakfast was quiet. Both being quite comfortable with one another. For Bilba that only served to bother her, while Thorin seemed to just accept it. They exchanged a few words, not a great deal as both did have enough to think about. Every once in a while, Bilba would open her journal to refer to something, then shut it again. Thorin watched this action each time and was, well, befuddled at having found his One in a hobbit-woman.

It would be a lie to say that Thorin didn’t feel a similar discomfort that Bilba felt while they both sat at the table, but he was able to reason his away while he ate. Knowing she was his One did what he was told it would: he felt suddenly more at home, more free to be himself here with her. He knew he should be making demands about what she could possibly know about the dwarrow, possibly even to see the books themselves. Others would even attempt to take and destroy them. He became angry at the hypothetical event, knowing the pain such an act would certainly cause her, knowing without actually knowing, she would fight against such acts. _No one will hurt my Bilba_ , he thought, then came back to himself.

“Here,” her sudden voice next to his chair startled him, causing him to jump. “I’m sorry, but I’d like to clear the table. I’ll take your dishes and meet you in the parlor. It’s the room just to the right of the frontdoor.”

“Thank you,” he said and handed her his plate, bowl, and glass, then made his way to the room she indicated.

Finding the parlor, he couldn’t help but think of how soft everything was. Not just in the plush cushions of the chairs and couches, but the room itself was as if it was layered in soft, warm memories. Pictures on the mantleplace, he saw on closer inspection, were of her as a child and of, who must have been, her parents. In the careful renderings, there was light and laughter. To have grown up here, to stay here now, would be such joy. He longed to settle in, to feel peace here with her. _Someday_ , he told himself. _Nothing else will matter then._

“Hello,” her soft voice came from just behind him, causing him to start again. “Are you always this jumpy or is it me?” Her smile blinded him and it took him some seconds to realize she had sat down on the couch facing the mantle.

“I am not normally, no,” he answered. “There is such an energy here and from you, I can’t help but be affected.”

“Ah, well, let’s see how that continues,” she patted the cushion next to hers. When he sat, she continued, “I’m afraid I need to be frank now. So, you will need to refrain from your attempts and charm and stay on your own side of the couch.”

“Of course,” he said and realized, when her gaze was unmoving, that the slow movement of his hand towards hers on her side of the couch, had not gone unnoticed. That she had also been aware of his subtle shifting closer to the middle of the couch. He quickly pulled his hand back and, when she still didn’t begin speaking, he sighed and moved all the way back to his side of the couch.

“Good, thank you,” she said with a nod. “Now. I thought that, perhaps instead of an interrogation like last night, I should inform you first of what I’ve been up to this morning, before you woke up.”

“I was a little surprised to see you exiting from a different room other than your own,” he said. “But, as this is your home, it would not be appropriate to question your behavior within it. I know my actionsof last night unnerved you. And, despite how well they were eventually received, I will behave in the manners with which I was brought up to have from this moment forward while I am here,” he looked at her beneath his brow. “I can’t hope to woo you, otherwise.”

“Very true,” her voice was faint and she needed to blink a few times before she could continue. “I appreciate that.” She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking of your actions and my own. As I said, I needed to get more information and I have done that. But, I don’t have all the information I need, not yet. I expect to learn more from Gandalf tonight and I hope to be hearing back from my grandfather shortly.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Yes. I sent him a letter this morning by way of my gardener…”

“How? I like to believe I would have heard you leaving.”

“Ah, well,” Bilba stalled, not sure if she wanted to tell him about just how big Bag End was. She may have felt at ease with him, but everyone has a right to their secrets. “I am a hobbit,” she said with a firm nod, not looking at him. “We are very light on our feet, don’t let their size fool you. I mean, remember, I did sneak up on you last night.”

“You did. I find that odd, as well, but please,” he said. “Go on.”

“Yes,” she licked her lips, unaware of Thorin’s quickening breath and staring at the motion. “You see, as I said earlier, my cousins and I have all undergone training, most of which I doubt would be so different from the training you and your nephews would have received as royalty and heirs. We are taught that, while we don’t expect or particularly desire to leave the Shire, we must be prepared in the arts of diplomatic engagement. This was the initial reason for my extensive library. The fact that I happen to love to read is just gravy,” she added with pride.

“There was actually some chatter about sending me to go and see the elves of Rivendell soon,” she continued past Thorin’s snort, but not before she fished in her skirts, again, to retrieve one of her neatly folded handkerchiefs to give him. “It had been sometime since any hobbit had been there—not since my mother, actually—and it is always prudent to visit and strengthen the bonds of friendship with anyone, particularly already established allies. But…”

“But,” Thorin prompted and decided he did not need to revisit the topic of elves later as the subject was changing.

“Well, I sent a letter to my grandfather, the Thain, incidentally.” At Thorin’s confused look, she clarified, “the military leader of the hobbits. You might go so far as to say our ‘king,’ though none of us would. In the letter, I proposed that, should the opportunity arise, I may forgo a visit to the elves and attempt to learn more of the dwarrow, perhaps to establish something between them and us. I’m expecting a reply back from him sometime this afternoon and I believe, as I’m sure you can, too, that he will be eccstatic.”

“He won’t want to know how you would come across such an opportunity,” Thorin’s hand, which was previously caressing the gifted hanky, now had it clenched in his fist.

“Oh,” Bilba looked at him with a grin, “everyone already knows about that. Turns out you’re not so secretive as you would have liked to think. All the hobbits in the Shire, probably all of Hobbiton, know about the humongous, brooding dwarf and that he’s hereabouts on Bag Shot Row.”

“And, you mocked me for my titles,” Thorin murmured, earning a light smack on his arm.

Everything she had just told him was just perculating in his brain, not yet boiled over. Bilba expected it would soon.

“I also sent a letter—”

“Another one?”

“Yes, goodness,” she sighed heavily. “This one to my cousins that, in case I should be making any trips anytime soon, that they, with my gardener and his family, are to take up co-tenancy here in Bag End. So as to keep and maintain my home and to keep unwanted pests out of it. Namely my other cousins, the Sacksville-Bagginses,” she trailed off.  

“You’ve,” Thorin started. His actions, feelings, and words catching up with him in a cacophony of reds, yellows, and sparks behind his eyes. “You’ve prepared.”

“Which is always prudent,” Bilba said slowly, watching him carefully, ready to put out a steadying hand, should he need it. “Would you like water?”

 _There is still hope_ , he began to tell himself. _She can yet be prevented from coming. How can she have been so active in getting ready for a venture she knows she cannot go on?_ Thorin clutched his head with one hand and wiped his sweating brow with the cloth still pressed in his hand from her.

“Perhaps,” he croaked. “Perhaps that ale that I was denied before.”

Bilba huffed a dry laugh, “I think that it makes more sense now than earlier.”

She got up to retrieve his drink and he sat, stewing in the shame of his actions of the previous night. Before, at the time he knew he was being inappropriate, but couldn’t bring himself to care when she settled in his arms. This morning he knew he needed to make amends for it, but now. _Now, I’ve acted without honor and besmirched hers!_ When she returned with two large mugs, she found him leaning as far as he could over the arm of the couch, her handkerchief draped over his face.

“You are an odd duck, Master Oakenshield,” she said and pushed his cold ale in his hands. “And a very dramatic one.”

He straightened, letting her handkerchief fall onto his chest. He picked it up and pushed it into his pocket. Bilba’s eyes widened at that, but let it go. _I have many hankies and that_ was _rather sweet…_   

“All from meeting you, I assure you,” he said then took several long swallows of his drink, draining it. She offered him the other mug, insisting he take it after he half-heartedly tried to wave it away.

“I know that you are experiencing some inner turmoil, Thorin,” Bilba said, looking him up and down as a healer might. “You acted hastily last night from a slurry of emotions, all of which can be attributed to, not our abrupt meeting, but what you believed to be our abrupt and impending separation.”

She patted his knee and looked him over again. His eyes drifted to hers and all he could see was warmth and, perhaps not full-blown love and adoration the likes of which he felt for her, but certainly affection that could and will grow.

“You are being very logical,” Thorin observed after a moment.

“I thought you might appreciate it,” Bilba said. “Besides, what I said before stands true. You and I don’t know each other yet. One of use needs to have a level head.”

For nearly half an hour, the two sat in companionable silence. Bilba only removing her hand from his knee when Thorin was done nursing his ale.

“Your friends are arriving tonight, yes?” She asked.

“My companions, yes,” Thorin answered, clutching the cooling mug.

“And, there are, how many? Eleven other dwarves and one wizard that I should be expecting?”

“Yes,” he took some of the mug’s condensation and wiped it on his cheeks.

“It is a very good thing on one more score that you arrived earlier than they, Thorin,” Bilba said, getting up. “I would not have been prepared to receive anyone otherwise.”

“Prepared?”

“Yes. I do have plenty of food for the barest of party essentials, but I would be happier to be more accomodating, especially as I may be going along with you lot.”

“Which you will not be,” Thorin said, tamping down a fresh rush of aggravation.

“I will need to be certain to make a good first impression,” she replied, her voice raised and stomped her foot once. Bilba went to the frontdoor, about to leave.

“I know you’ve had quite a lot of information to take in,” she said to him as she considered taking a parasol, decided against it, and put her hand on the door, “so I won’t blame you for not coming with me. I’ll see you in—”

Thorin got up abruptly and joined her there, placing his hand over hers on the doorknob.

“I would be honored to join you, Miss Baggins,” Thorin said. “Any angst I’m experiencing can only be alleviated by feeling you by my side.”

“Stop trying to be romantic, sir,” she said in the hautiest voice she could manage, the corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk, “you’ll find I’m quite immune.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only a step and half, but the story moved forward, regardless.

As the odd— _but charming, if you think about it_ , Bilba mused before shaking her head of the thought. _He’s practically taken you hostage, silly woman!_ —couple walked down the road towards the market, Thorin picked up her hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow. Bilba made an indignant sound and tried to tug her arm away, Thorin only flexed his arm, keeping her in place. She huffed, but allowed it, trying to stifle her smile. She wanted to take him to task for his behavior, but was happy he wasn’t still a wilted mess on her couch. She chuckled at the image of the hulking dwarf, regal and intimidating, slumped over and frail against the flowers and cottons of her settee. Thorin cleared his throat and jostled her arm in his, as if he was able to read her thoughts.

“So,” he said, “you said you learned as much as you could from books last night.”

“I did.”

“What did you learn?”

“I left my journal at home,” she replied, patting her pockets with her free hand. “I kept all my notes in it…”

“I’m sure your memory will suffice for now, Bilba. Please?”

“Very well. I did stay up all night—how I’m awake now, I can’t explain. I’m sure I’ll fall over soon. I was researching and taking notes on everything I could find regarding you, your culture, and your quest.”

“And?” Thorin prompted.

“I read many things, though a great deal of it will need to be confirmed by you, if you will allow it. I know about your family line, about Durin the Deathless. I know about what happened after the sacking of Dale and Erebor. About Smaug himself. I know that you need something called the ‘Arkenstone’ to prove your right to rule, your right to Erebor. You need to enter the mountain to get it, or someone does,” she took a breath in.

“As far as your culture goes, I suspect that a great deal of it is conjecture of the –very few—writers, but I was able to find a few annotated discussions that were taken when the dwarf being talked to had imbibed _something_ with the interviewer. I have no books written by dwarves, which is such a pity,” she said and patted his hand. “And, as it seemed more pertinent at the time, I started reading as much as I could about what being a ‘One’ means.”

Thorin drew breath, but Bilba put up a hand to stop him.

“Before you launch into the lore and poetry of it—as beautiful as I know it is—I mean what it being a ‘One,’ your One means for me,” Bilba licked her lips and Thorin, taken up anew about her knowledge regarding him and his people and his explosive feelings regarding her, was distracted by the movement of the little pink muscle which darted back behind her petal shaped lips.

“Thorin,” she tapped at his arm. Remembering her, the _surprising, not just beautiful_ being walking beside him, he moved her arm from his elbow and took her small hand in his.

“It is,” he paused. “It is hard to explain what a ‘One’ is at all, let alone what it means for you, a brilliant woman of another race. It means that I am feeling love beyond poetry and words for a woman who, as you’ve said, I don’t know. It means I feel as if I do know you, somehow, that everything I’m feeling is right. Whatever all that means” he said, studying her small fingers. “And, I am mortified beyond what I am capable of reasoning for how I presented myself to you last night, given how clever and resourceful you are.” Thorin looked in her eyes and squeezed her hand.

Bilba laughed a small and nervous laugh, looked away as a lovely blush spread across her cheeks and nose, but she returned his boldness by interlacing their fingers.

They went along a while longer in silence, listening to one another breathe. Thorin thought on the sound of her barefeet against the ground compared to the clumsly stomping of his boots. His thoughts went back to the feelings of elation he felt when he awoke, the excitement he felt in seeing her, hearing her, even as she rebuked him. He shuddered at all that she had accomplished, preparing for an adventure he was so sure last night and this morning he did not want her coming along for. _In some ways, she might be more fit for it than I_.

He remembered as much of what she said to him, cherishing her voice and words, the peculiar way she spoke and the way her brilliant mind worked. He wanted to remember everything about her, even as he formulated his own plans to keep her from coming on this mad quest.

“Before we left,” Thorin said quietly, “you said ‘it was a good thing on one more score’ that I had arrived early to your home.”

“I,” Bilba started and remembered. “Yes, I did.”

“What did you mean?”

“I’m,” she started and stopped, folding her lips on themselves in conscentration. “It’s hard to say, to comprehend at all, really. I’m happy you’re here. I’m happy that I can get to know you. It’s exhilerating. It’s more than I ever thought I’d ever get to feel just by talking to someone. And, I get the feeling that, when your friends arrive, I won’t get this opportunity again.”

“We will, Bilba,” Thorin said in such a voice, causing her to look up at him. “I swear it.”

They stopped and he brushed some of her hair behind her ear. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and, as he leaned down, the sounds of the bustling market pushed into her consciousness.

“Stop that,” she said. “We’re talking as if we have to say ‘goodbye’ already and we haven’t established that we must say it at all.”

“Bilba,” Thorin said, but she shook her head and tugged him along into the crowds of hobbits who all paused and moved out of the way of the regal-looking dwarf and the well-respected Bilba Baggins.

The market, once everyone seemed to accept the that Thorin was amongst them and that his stature was the only interesting thing about him, went on as usual. The pair went around to the various farmers and merchants, perchasing meats, cheeses, breads, and anything that Thorin assured Bilba would be acceptable for his companions. “If they don’t like it,” he said to her as they stood next to a produce stand, “they can go hungry. Eating grass on their way out of the Shire.”

They continued their shopping for a time, Thorin’s arms becoming weighed down by the bags until Bilba was able to arrange for a cart and a delivery man to bring everything along in an hour or two. After that, they proceeded out of the market, hands linking once more.

“My dearest Bilba!” A voice rang from behind them as they began their walk back to Bag End. Bilba groaned, then fixed a smile to her face before turning to face a hobbit couple approaching them.

“Lobelia! How are you?” She said, tugging Thorin slightly behind her. “Otho,” she nodded at the gentle-hobbit edging behind the woman curtained in yellow.

“Very well, indeed,” Lobelia started. “I hear, my dear cousin, that you may be vacating Bag End for some months.”

“I might be,” Bilba replied, cocking her brow. “May I ask as to your interest?”

“Well, you may be in need of someone to take care of it.”

“Quite right, my sweet Lobelia,” Bilba nodded. “Which is why I—as the events may unfold—enlisted several someones to do just that. Thank you for your concern.”

“You’re always welcome to it. May I make a suggestion, though?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bilba said, jutting her lower lip out as if in genuine lament, “I don’t have time at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day?”

Lobelia’s smile stiffened, “Perhaps.”

“But, if I do go, Lobelia, you need to know that I have every intention of coming back and when I do,” Bilba said, stepping forward away from Thorin. She pulled Lobelia into a hug, then softly said in her cousin’s ear, “I will murder you with my mother’s West Farthing Silver.”

“I look forward to seeing you try,” Lobelia replied, then moved away. The two hobbit women smiled, dipped short curtsies without taking their eyes off one another, then walked away in opposite directions, pulling their male companions with them.

“Who were they?” Thorin asked when he was able to work moisture into his mouth again.

“My cousin, Otho, and cousin-by-marriage, Lobelia. The Sacksville-Baggins. I’ve known them both my entire life.”

“You seem to have an interesting relationship with her.”

“An apt description. Vague enough, yet invites plenty of imagery.”

“Why do you dislike each other so?”

“Oh, ‘dislike’ might be a little strong. Or, perhaps, not strong enough at times. She and I were great friends when we were faunts. Some of that affection is residual, though not evident except at the worst of times.”

“What happened?”

“Courting story. Very boring. You don’t need or want to know.”

“Tell me,” Thorin’s grin broadened.

“It really is boring,” she said. “Nothing scandalous actually happened, despite how Lobelia saw it then, how Otho may have exaggerated it, and how they both must remember it now.”

Thorin waited, watching her even as they walked down the lane.

“You should be looking ahead, you know,” she said. “I might not try to guide you into a tree or ravine, but I don’t think I could stop your bulk if you went that way absently.”

“I would merely pull you in with me, wherever I went,” he said, eyes unblinking.

“Fine,” Bilba rolled her eyes. “I will hold you to that, Oakenshield.”

Bilba took a calming breath and thought for a moment. It was not a memory she brought up often, while it wasn’t a pleasant experience, it wasn’t overly interesting at the time. It certainly isn’t interesting now.

“We were all about thirty years old, just about to get beyond our majority and interested in more serious courting. At least, most of the hobbit lads and lasses were, I was too busy and, frankly, quite disinterested.”

Thorin hummed and she poked his arm. _At least he’s facing forward now_.

“Anyway,” she continued, “things progressed as they are wont to, Lobelia and Otho found a great kinship with one another. However, Otho thought it needed a boost, a spark of drama. He and some of his friends began a rumor that I was leaving flowers and cakes at his parents’ smial—they even fabricated evidence, sprinkling crumbs from my frontdoor to theirs. Lobelia was furious, which I understood. What I didn’t and don’t understand is how she refused to listen to my side, my alibies, and, more importantly, trust in our friendship that I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

Bilba paused for a few moments, the memory sharper than she had anticipated. Thorin brought his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. They stood in the middle of the path for a moment before Thorin spoke.

“I am sorry.”

“No, it’s,” she breathed out, “fine. Really. If anything I regret how much I am not affected. I was too steeped in my family responsibilities. I didn’t have time…”

She found comfort in his warmth and brought her own arms around his middle, she took the offered time to snuggle in. Thorin tipped her face up, his hand cupping her cheek.

“It’s good that you weren’t able to dwell on such treachery at the time,” he said. “I’m sorry for the treachery itself, that it persists. I’m even more sorry, as strange as it sounds, that you were not able to indulge in your own childish behavior. Perhaps you would have been able to protect yourself better, or your friend. Or, better still, exacted a little revenge on the lout,” he smiled as Bilba giggled. “I imagine you had little time to think on it.”

Bilba smiled up at him, wondering again at the comfort and peace she feels with this perfect stranger. _Perfect_. Her practical nature would take up the battle again shortly, but now, she revelled in perhaps being struck with the notion of being a ‘One.’ His One.

“You’re right,” she said finally, moving away, but keeping his hand as they continued their way, “I didn’t. I had a few revenge fantasies, certainly, still do. As an adult and sole proprieter of Bag End and executor of much of the Baggins and Took holdings, I find a little power-play at dinner parties and tea-times. Nothing gruesome, of course. Nothing at all satisfying in the proper ‘Revenge Fantasy’ genre, but I can take some comfort in knowing that I was successful in the long-term. Even after my parents passed away,” at this Thorin rubbed his thumb on her knuckles, “I am able to protect myself and my home. I hope to still do so.”

They were, again, ensconced in silence, with Bilba kicking herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was meant to be teasing, funny topic to enjoy on a lovely afternoon. Not the heavy thing I made it. It’s certainly not comparable to the pains others,” she looked at him sidelong, “have felt.”

“Not at all. I relish the time to get to know you, as you said this morning,” he said. “I like just being us two.”

“I do, as well,” she said, relieved, and leaned against his arm.

“I am curious, though,” Thorin said. “What does Hobbit Courtship entail? I believe I heard something of flowers and cakes.”

“Yes,” she chuckled, “when a hobbit is interested in moving their friendship—as we all know each other, we’re all beyond mere acquaintanceship and are either great friends or despicable enemies, as you saw—to something more exclusive, he or she will gift the object of their desire with flowers. If the flowers are accepted, there continues to be some back and forth of flowers and cakes, leading to private dinners and walk-abouts. Then, as things get more serious, there are more permanent gifts in handmade items that would be most useful and appealing to the receiver, all the while the walk-abouts and meals continue. During one of those private meetings, it’s assumed that the proposal will be proffered, accepted, then planning commences.”

“What else?”

“A meeting between families, then the wedding to join the houses.”

“How very,” Thorin floundered for an appropriate adjective, “practical.”

“I may have made it sound that way,” Bilba replied, “I’m sorry. The lore around the flowers and the cakes are enjoyable. Witnessing it is actually quite lovely, especially when the courting couple are truly friends and in love. My parents’ courtship is my favorite romance.”

“I see,” he said and covered her hand with the one not holding hers. “I would like to hear that story, but later,” he added as she looked to start on it. “Do you not give rings during courtship?”

“If the fashion dictates, but not usually,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re a very simple people. As a whole, we have simple tastes and practices. And, there aren’t so many of us that a ring or a bead,” she said, eyeing the adornments in his hair, “to indicate bargain and ownership are necessary.”

“Devotion, Bilba” Thorin corrected. “Devotion and loyalty, not bargain and ownerhip.”

“Ah,” she said. “I’m sorry. What of Dwarven Courtship?”

“You mean you don’t know?” He said, earning a smack to his shoulder. “Our ways are not dissimilar, except in the kinds of gifts. Metals, gems. Our courtship periods are longer because there are so many of us, it wouldn’t do to not spend enough time together beforehand, ‘One’ or no.”

“So, your hastiness…”

“Was explained by you rather well, this morning,” he interrupted. “There is a great burden on me and pushing me forward in my quest for my people. It does not allow me to rest as long as I would like. I was impulsive. And, as I said earlier, I was mortified, but not regretful.”

They were nearing Bag End, travelling up Bag Shot Row when Hamfast came into view ahead of them.

“Ah!” he said, “There you are, Miss Bilba! Master Dwarf,” he dipped his head to Thorin, who stiffened.

“Hamfast,” Bilba said, “This is Thorin, my guest and friend,” Thorin preened at the honorific. “Thorin, this is Hamfast, my gardener and—”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Thorin,” Hamfast said quickly. “I have those replies, Miss Bilba, from both your Grandfather and Mr. and Mrs. Baggins.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the letters and pushing them in one of her pockets.

“What about your garden?” Hamfast pushed his thumbs under his suspender straps at this chest, looking amiable but casting a narrowed eye at Thorin. Thorin stood, stiff and unreadable.

“Same schedule, as always, my good man,” she said, patting his arm. “Whether I’m here or not.”

“Of course, ma’am. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Just give your family my best,” she said, adding as he looked a little wary, “and I’ll be sure to stop by either tonight or tomorrow with any news.”

“Very good, Miss Bilba. Good day!” Hamfast then walked between Thorin and Bilba, breaking their contact for the moment, and out of sight as he rounded the corner towards his home.

“I think I’ll read these inside,” she said, picking up Thorin’s hand and walked on.

“Interesting fellow,” Thorin said.

“He’s very nice,” she said. “You didn’t seem to like him.”

Thorin grunted. “He didn’t seem to like me, either.”

“He’s careful, as you are, I’m sure. Here we are.”

Bilba pushed open her round green door and lead him in. She began breaking the seal to the first letter as Thorin closed the door behind him. She hummed as she read it, then opened the next one, smiling at it.

“Good to know,” she murmered. “Good to know.”

Turning her attention to the dwarf standing next to her, looking quite unsure of what to do with his hands and where to look. “Are you hungry? We skipped second breakfast, but sampled a great deal at the market, though it is nearly time for lunch.”

“Excuse me?” Thorin followed her again to the dining room and took a seat at the head. She didn’t seem to mind, so he was able to relax in it.

“Hobbits are very serious about food,” was all she would say and proceeded to slice some bread.

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him from her carving, “Come now. Split a sandwich with me?”

“Sand…wich?” Thorin said, “That doesn’t sound appealing.”

“Oh, it’s very good, I assure you,” Bilba said and pulled some cured meat from her pantry. “Meats, cheeses, some veg, all between two slices of bread. You’ll like it.”

“You were never interested in courtship?” Thorin said erelong, unwilling to give up the subject.

“Maybe when I was a tween,” she said, placing half of the strange concoction in front of him, taking her own seat next to him.

“Tween?”

“Between child years and growing up. Tween,” she said and took a bite of her lunch, which encouraged him to do the same. She smiled around her own bite at the pleased sound he made. “Everyone, it seems, has fancies of who they’ll get married to and when. I was no different. I put it aside, though, as my education became pressing, then gave it up entirely when my parents died. Too much to do. There were offers, though. Sometimes I still get one or two.”

“From?”

“Jealousy is a lovely color on you, Master Oakenshield,” she said, getting up and fetching two glasses of water, then settled again. “But, no, I will not subject the poor sods to your wrath. As amusing as that may be.”

“Very well,” he said. “Would you consent to be courted by me?”

“I thought you were leaving me behind,” Bilba replied, not turning her head, but looking at him from the corners of her eyes. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No, I haven’t. But,” he said and picked up her hand, causing her to look at him directly. His eyes were sharp, blue and enchanting, “I would like to put my beads in your hair. When I return, I would like to proceed in proper courtship in the style of both our people.”

Bilba had to look away from the intensity of his gaze and bit her bottom lip.

“My first reaction to that is to slap you, Master Oakenshield,” she said, pushing a teasing tone through the thickness she was feeling at in her throat, “and tell you that you are being impulsive and rude with such a request. Then I remember that our cultures are different ones, so I refrain.”

Bilba breathed inhaled and exhaled sharply, then looked at him steadily.

“I don’t want you to think that I would not consent to courtship with you. With everything I’m feeling right now and have been feeling since last night—too many and too complicated to name—I would leap in your lap and kiss you until neither of us could breath.” She smiled and squeezed his hand, then sobered, “But, you do realize what kind of position you’re putting me in? Your promises and stirring of emotions I didn’t realize I would ever have, then threatening to break all of that apart with your leaving? Not to mention causing me to break my word given by a wizard regarding a task that I have yet to truly consider.” She stopped, took a drink of water. Setting her glass down, she looked at him steadily. “You must let me think on it as well as everything else.”

Thorin bent his head after her speech. He admired her resolve, even if that resolve was to keep him at bay.

“Are you angry with me?” She tentatively brushed her thumb along his.

“No. I’m not sure I ever could be,” he replied and looked up. His heart breaking at the wet gleam in her eyes.

“Don’t say that,” she let out a short laugh. “You don’t know how aggravating I can be.”

“I think I have an idea,” Thorin petted her hand.

They finished their lunch. When there was time to do something, Bilba went to take a nap, during which time, Thorin went to her study and attempted some self-education regarding hobbits and just what this particular one had at her disposal. When the delivery man arrived, Bilba awoke and they set about getting everything ready for the gathering of dwarves. As the evening wore on, a thick stew was bubbling in her kitchen and they both sat waiting for the first to arrive in her parlor.

“What’s the term for a group of dwarves,” Bilba asked, a nervous tremor in her voice. “Like, a ‘Murder of Crows’ or a ‘Clowder of Cats’?”

“‘Murder’ sounds good, but, no,” he said, “‘Dwarrow’ will do.’”

As Thorin was about to tease her about how she would handle hostessing for thirteen dwarves and a wizard when she only had so much iron mongery, three heavy knocks resounded through the smial.

Bilba jumped up about to go answer the door. Thorin stood after her, laying his hands on her shoulders.

“If I may?” At her nod he was about to turn away and, before she could respond, planted a kiss on her forehead then strode to the door.

Swinging it open, he found the hulking form of his guard captain and best friend, sneer affixed to his bald and tattooed pate. The dwarve’s eyes widened at the unexpected presence of his king. His smiling king, no less.

“Thorin?” he stuttered. “You’re here? Early?”

“A day early, Dwalin” Thorin replied and stepped out of the door, closing it behind him. “I was surprised, too, as was our host. I have some instructions for you.”

“Aye?” Dwalin said.

“Aye. I need you to intercept our fellows as they come, inform them that, while they are not to be too exhuberant, they must do their best to dissuade the supposed burglar from joining our company.”

“Why?” Dwalin’s brogue stroked the word, implications beyond the immediate. Thorin fixed him with a harsh glare. “I’ve been travelling, Thorin.”

The dwarf king rolled his eyes, entered the smial, allowing Dwalin a quick look at the warmth inside and to hear the soft steps of someone just beyond. Thorin returned quickly and tossed Dwalin the jar he was holding.

“Those ought to hold you,” he said and stepped back in, closing the door.

“Where’s…?” Bilba asked Thorin when he came back into the parlor.

“He’ll be greeting the rest of them,” he answered, sitting down.

“Why?”

“To give them instructions. Warn them,” Thorin said.

“Warn them?” Bilba started but was interrupted by the opening and closing of her front door. In walked a dwarf shorter than Thorin, wearing scarlet robes and had peaks of white hair growing from both ends of his head, who nearly passed the entry to the parlor, but must have caught a glimpse of the pair in his peripheral when he turned towards them.

“Thorin, lad!” He said, “How are you?”

“Very well, my friend,” Thorin said, indicating Bilba, “Balin, son of Fundin, may I present Bilba Baggins of the Shire.”

“At your service, Mrs. Baggins,” Balin said, bowing low. Thorin had to hold himself back from correcting his advisor, gritting his teeth at the idea that Bilba could be someone else’s wife, reminding himself of the mistake he made the night before.

“Hello,” Bilba said, dipping into a curtsy. “Just Bilba, please. I’m not married.”

“Ah,” the old dwarf said. “A brother then?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and repressed an annoyed sigh. “Just me. Would you like something to drink?”

“An ale, if you have it, love,” Balin said and held his arm to the hobbit-lass, winking at Thorin as they walked towards the dining room.

Thorin growled, keeping it low as he followed the pair.

“Here you are, Master Balin,” Bilba said as she opened the tap into a stein.

“Thank you, love,” Balin said again, “And, just Balin, if you please.”

“Balin,” Bilba recited with a nod and smile. “You’re much more polite than Master Oakenshield.”

“That’s not surprising,” Balin said, shaking his head and hiding his smirk in his beard. “Lad’s a little thick at times.”

“That seems a little harsh,” she replied as she opened the tap for another stein.

“But, not incorrect,” he said and joined Bilba in her ringing laughter.

“I think,” she said and walked past Thorin and his hand waiting to take the mug from her, which she dodged. “I’ll leave you two to catch up and I’ll take some refreshment to the kind dwarf Master Oakenshield abandoned on the front step.”

“No, Bilba—” Thorin started but was cut off by a sharp elbow from Balin.

“A fine idea, love.” With that Bilba disappeared to the front door and Balin angled Thorin to a seat at the table. “So, that lovely young hobbit is your One, eh?”

Thorin Oakenshield, king and warrior, the stuff of legends and songs, was left sputtering and speechless for the second time in Bag End.

“How?!” He managed after Balin went upside his head.

“Please,” Balin sat down to the right of Thorin and sipped his drink.

Out on the front step, Bilba stood next to _the Somehow-Larger-Than-Thorin_ dwarf in silence. Since she had handed Dwalin the pint she prepared for him he seemed to soften. Though he remained stoic, radiating murderous intent.

“Would you like to come in?” She asked finally. “I have more biscuits inside.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Orders.”

“Orders,” she repeated under her breath. “Well,” she continued, wringing her hands, “I can bring you some, if you’d like?”

Dwalin grunted.

“I’ll be right back, then. Hello, Master Oakenshield.” She said, passing Thorin and going into the now open door. “Please close that after you,” she called back.

Obediently, Thorin was about to click the door shut when Dwalin, looking back through the portal and back at him.

“Nice,” he said, nodding at the door. “Your One.”

Thorin cursed and went back inside.

Almost as soon as the door closed behind him, did it open again and he was embraced on both sides by two solid beings, who proceeded to push him up in the air between them and move down the hallway.

“Fili! Kili!” Thorin shouted as Bilba came out of the kitchen to greet them.

“Hello?”

“Bilba Baggins,” Thorin said, still squeezed between the two dwarves, “These are my nephews, Fili,” he nodded to the blonde on his left, “and Kili,” he nodded to the dark-haired dwarf on his right.

“You must be Miss Boggins,” the dark-haired one said, releasing Thorin in time with the blonde, causing the larger dwarf to crash to the ground. “At your service,” he bowed, then brushed past her with what would be assumed to be a gentle shoulder nudge by dwarven standards, but sent her falling into Thorin who had gotten back up and to her side in time.

“Tell me,” she said as he helped her stand up on her own two feet, “is it a general affliction in your family or just those with black hair?”

“What?”

“Mixing up one’s ‘o’s and ‘a’s,” she said, brushing down her skirts. “Poor dears.”

Fili, who had hung back, snickered, gave her an approving wink—which Thorin growled at—and followed after his brother.

“They’re very fond of you,” she said, straightening his tunic.

“I helped raise them. They’re not as formal as they should be.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to be. They’re your nephews.”

The evening progressed for another half an hour, Bilba took a plate of warm biscuits to Dwalin, Thorin held back from scolding Kili for scraping his boots on Bilba’s glory chest, while she was torn between that horror and Fili informing her of the different kinds of blades he had. _This is part of the plan_ , he had to tell himself.

Then, the door opened again and in fell, literally, eight other dwarves with Dwalin behind who, Thorin suspected, was part of the reason for the unceremonious pile of dwarrrow on the mat. Stepping over them was the tallest figure in the smial and in Hobbiton, was Gandalf.

Bilba, with Thorin in tow, went to greet and help those who needed it.

“Ah, Thorin!” Gandalf said, winking at the sour face he was being given and clapping Thorin on the shoulder. “You’re here. Bilba! May I introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Nori, Dori, and Ori,” each of the dwarves smiled, winked, nodded, or waved as his name was said.

“I see you’ve already met Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Fili, and Kili. As I promised you last week, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“I don’t recall a promise, Gandalf.” Bilba was in the process of helping a few of the still struggling men up, in particular whose hand was holding an ear-horn _(Oin)_ , Bilba’s memory supplied.

“No matter,” Gandalf hung his hat onto one of the pegs, put his staff in the bucket by the door and followed the smell of stew. The dwarves, after righting themselves, nodded to Bilba and Thorin—two stooping in low bows to him—as they made their way in.

“I should have met up with them on the way from my meeting with the other Dwarf Lords. Of course, I didn’t consider it might have meant I would be early instead of late…” Thorin whispered to Bilba.

“Seeing you piled with them would have been interesting,” she smirked at him and followed after the group.

As the evening trooped by, Bilba did her job as a hostess and a curious hobbit by making the rounds and talking to each one. As a reward for her curiosity, she happened upon the dwarf with star-shaped hair _(Nori)_ pocketing some of her crochet and silverware, another with a bowl cut and sweet smile _(Ori)_ was taken with her library, his other brother making use of one of her teapots _(Dori)_.

After an idle comment to Fili about being careful to not blunt her knives, a song and chorus leapt up around her. Her dishes tossed back and forth in time with the rhythem pounded with utensils on any available surface. The poor girl was at odds within herself at the impropriety of the situation, the jauntiness, the spontaneity itself, and felt tingles of irritation when she saw Thorin sitting back in amused observation.  

Once it calmed down, all her plates clean and stacked, she was able to relax and enjoy a conversation with the dwarf with the amazing hat _(Bofur)_.

“Our cousin,” Bofur nodded at the dwarf with wild hair, parted by an axe-head _(Bifur)_ , who stood near the ginger, round dwarf _(Bombur)_ who was working at Bilba’s stove. “Was a great warrior some time ago. Fought along side the royal family and guards at the Battle of Azanulbizar, he did. ‘Course, that’s where he got that nasty head wound. It’s in too deep to remove, but, as per King’s orders,” Bofur looked towards Thorin, who was in conversation with Dwalin, “all injured warriors would receive rehabilitation to keep limbs and minds as sharp as can be. Bifur took to it like a duck to water, it’s how he got to be a great toy maker, kept our family from starvin’, and is why we’re here with our King once more,” Bofur finished with a puffed out chest.

“I’m sorry he was hurt,” she said. “But, it’s wonderful to see he belongs to such a caring family and people.”

“Thank you, Miss Bilba.”

“Please,” she said, “just Bilba.”

“Thank you, Bilba,” he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a half-hug. “Ohp,” he said and puffed his cheeks out with the sound making Bilba giggle. “Looks like the king might want to start.”

Thorin did look like he was interested in starting something. His glower felt as if a shadow had descended on the hobbit and amiable dwarf.

“Places, then?”

Bofur winked and went ahead, taking a spot with his brothers at the table. Bilba found there was no where for her to sit, so hovered somewhat between Thorin and Gandalf, though still behind them and unobtrusive. _For the better to hear_ , she thought.

Most of what was said was beyond her, discussions of alliances and lords and ‘jacksies.’ Gandalf eventually produced a map, which brought Bilba closer to see, _I don’t have a map like this…_

“Bilba,” Gandalf said, causing her to jump a little, “would you bring a little more light?”

Picking up the nearest candle, she maneuvered between the Istari and king to place it on the table.

“Thank you, my dear,” Gandalf laid his hand on her shoulder causing her to stay closer during this portion of the meeting. “So,” Gandalf continued to the rest of the company, “we have nearly everything we need.”

“Including a burglar,” one of the dwarves piped up _(Gloin)_.

“Not quite,” Thorin said. “We have yet to secure that.”

“Yes, we do,” Gandalf said. “She’s right here.”

“Not the lass?” Dwalin said, “The wild is no place for gentle-folk. Least of all a gentle-woman.”

A chorus of ‘Ayes’ rang through her dining room and before she could say anything, Gandalf began to rise from his seat.

“If I say Bilba Baggins is a burglar,” his voice quiet, yet booming through her home, “then a burglar she is.”

“The circumstances have changed,” Thorin, unmoved by the sudden magic taking place, took on his own strong posture and levelled a glare at the wizard.

“I was tasked with bringing you a fourteenth member, Thorin Oakenshield. And, here she is,” Gandalf said, hitting his fist against her table. “Master Balin, the contract.”

Some folded paper made it to Bilba’s _shaking_ hands. She wasn’t sure who she was more offended at.

“I better have a look at this, then,” she said and went off to her study.

“But, lass,” Bofur’s voice came after her, “don’t you want to know more about the dragon?”

Bilba closed her study door and sat in her arm chair. Time passed allowing Bilba to read and re-read the contract, underline portions she would like to ask Balin about, and for the events of the last day wash over her. A knock came at her door and Gandalf stepped in without an invitation. She may not have had voice to give one.

“You’ve been in here sometime, my dear,” he said, standing in front of her chair.

“I’ve been thinking, going over everything,” she said after a moment. “Did you know Tho—Master Oakenshield was a day early?”

“I did not, no,” Gandalf leaned against the opposite chair.

“It was good that he was,” she said. “I already know a great deal about what is expected.”

“Of you, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“It will be good for you to come, Bilba,” Gandalf said. “You’ve spent far too long in only your books and maps. As glad as I am that they’ve helped you, it’s time to see the wider world. See what your mother talked about all those years ago.”

“Dirty pull, old man,” Bilba narrowed her eyes at the now chuckling wizard. “You could have told me, you know. About the dwarves. Even if I remained firm in not coming as I was a week ago, I still wouldn’t have turned them away.” Gandalf nodded and looked to the door suddenly.

“I think you have another visitor,” Gandalf went to open the study door. “Ah, Thorin, my good man. Come in. Bilba,” he said before leaving, “I know you will do the right thing and, think of it, this venture—should you return—would give you the funds you lack to finish that series of hallways in the back and, perhaps, to put in that moat.”

The door clicked close, both Thorin and Bilba waited until the sound of his footsteps faded away.

“Moat?”

“Blasted wizard,” she said, standing and going to her desk, tossing the contract on it. “Can’t have any secrets.”

“I suppose not,” he replied and came to stand beside her.

“Did you have any hand in how everyone was treating me? Like they were told to dissuade me from coming along with you all?” She said and jumped a little to sit on the top of the desk.

“The wizard told you?”

“Nope,” she said and kicked her heels against the wood paneling. “Among other of your actions tonight, you just now confessed.”

“Clever woman,” Thorin couldn’t help smiling as he sat on her left and took her hand. “Did it work?”

“Nope,” she said again, looking away.

“Bilba,” he began.

“Would you like to know what was in the letter I got from my grandfather?” She pulled it from her pocket and handed it to him. “He said that it would be invaluable to learn more of the dwarves, if only for diplomatic reasons. He encourages me to go, to keep records, represent well the family, the Shire, and all of Hobbit-kind. He said he would keep my holdings safe, especially as my cousins Drogo and Primula, along with Hamfast and his family, will be taking care of Bag End.”

“Bilba,” Thorin tried again.

“Would you like to see Drogo and Prim’s letter?” She pulled out the second bit of parchment and gave it to him. “More of the same, really, though less official. They’re happy for me—that’d be Prim—and scared for me—that’s more Drogo. But, they know, and tell me here,” Bilba tapped the letter, “that I haven’t been happy,” she paused for a beat. “I didn’t know that, actually.”

“Bilba, please.”

“I feel it now, meeting you,” she took the letters from his hand, put them back in her pocket, then clutched his hand in both of hers. Looking into his eyes, she continued, “If I let you leave without me, if I stayed behind, I would regret it for the rest of my days. I know that I would run after you without so much as a handkerchief tomorrow morning. Besides,” she pitched her voice louder to keep him from interrupting, “this will give us a chance at a proper courtship, which we wouldn’t have otherwise. It would give me enough time to let you play with my hair.”

“Are you saying,” he marvelled at how he was able to finally speak swirling in him, “that if you don’t come, you won’t take my braid?”

“No, not that at all. I’m actually being quite a coward here as I refuse to hurt you that way,” she smirked. “So I will go and give you my confidence in person.” She hopped down, flattened the contract out, and signed it.

The way she looked at him after she finished her signature with a flourish made him wonder if she was waiting for him to come and listen to her before signing. He still wanted nothing more than to keep her here, keep her safe, but was awed at her mind and charm. He was frustrated, annoyed, exasperated, but also felt more assured confidence that she would make an excellent queen and a perfect foil for him. 

Bilba used his stunned silence to retreat for a moment to find Balin and hand off the now binding document. She returned and, rising on the balls of her feet as she did the night previous, kissed him lightly on the lips. He makes to put his arms around her when she pulls away.

“Now, don’t think you can leave without me. I will never give you satisfaction of a proper kiss or embrace if I’m forced to catch up with you all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandwiches are wonderful. Sandwiches should have always existed everywhere forever. It should have been Adam and Eve in the Garden of Sandwiches partaking in the Sandwich of The Knowledge of Good and Evil. I don't need people telling me there wouldn't have been sandwiches. Also, I might not actually know if ale would be served from a keg. 
> 
> I like the imagery of barrel-tapping and sandwich having.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the wilds with a few pit-stops scattered throughout.

The morning they left the Shire passed normally. Or it passed as normally as it would with thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit-lass trecking out of the Shire towards the town of Bree. Breakfast was a nice affair, more sedate than dinner the night before. Hobbit ale and spirits took the dwarves by surprise, certainly. Bilba used the opportunity their recovery-times offered to go and say her goodbyes to Hamfast, then to Drogo and Prim.

When the dwarves were ready to go, it was a quiet journey out of Hobbiton and the Shire, none of the dwarves saying much to her. Bilba understood why the dwarves would be reticent to speak with her: she was an outsider, an interloper, and they were all hungover. She was a little surprised that Thorin kept his distance, she reasoned that he was eager to get going, as disappointed as she was regardless.

The next day, though, conversations resumed and, measure by measure, Bilba was becoming somewhat more included amongst the dwarrow.

“That drink, lass,” Bofur said to her. “My, it packed a whollop.”

“A slow one, though,” Balin said. “As if someone was swinging their war-hammer at a slower pace until it knocked you on your backside.”

Bilba laughed from her place in the middle of the company, Gandalf bringing up the rear with Thorin and Dwalin on point.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said. “I was worried it would be a little too weak actually. It's considered a table drink, even fauntlings can have a little on special occasions.”

“Lass is clever, eh?” Nori said while the surrounding men huffed and sputtered. He elbowed Bofur aside and clapped his arm around her shoulder. “Perfect for a thief. Stay close, love, us poachers gotta stick together.”

Bilba laughed with a tremor of nervousness and bashfulness mixed together, ducking her head while the rest of the dwarves were a bundle of laughter and muttering around them. With a silent command from Thorin, Fili and Kili edged Nori away from Bilba much the same as he did with Bofur, one prince on each side of her.

“Poachers and burglars are not the same,” Fili said. “Never you mind him.”

“Right. B’sides,” Kili chimed in, “it’s not as if any of us will actually let you burgle anything. Too fair a lady such as yourself is meant to be rescued from dragons, not sneaking around ‘em.”

At this, Thorin clapped his hand to his forehead and nodded for Dwalin to take the princeling’s place. However, Bilba edged further back from the middle, next to Ori and Dori.

“Goodness,” she said with some exasperation. “It’s as if none of them have ever seen a woman before.”

“It does seem like it, yes,” Dori said. “Pardon their rudeness.”

“You’re just a bit,” Ori said, “well, unexpected.”

“None of you thought I would be a woman?” Bilba looked over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes and the gray wizard.

“Not that exactly,” Dori said. “Just not a comely one, nor one so young. And, we know very little of hobbits. We would only assume that, well…”

“Well…?” Bilba prompted.

“That you would not be allowed to go, that we would find another hobbit, a hobbit-lad. Again, we know only a little of hobbits, just that you are near to us in size and have similar predilections to burrowing into the earth. Other than that, we tend to measure the other races in comparison to either ourselves or Men.”

“Females of Men aren’t allowed to be so adventuresome,” Ori clarified.

“I had read that before, yes,” Bilba said, her tone gone thoughtful. “You wouldn’t compare me to elves? What of my ears?” Bilba teased and managed to wiggle the tips of them just slightly, but enough to make Ori’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, no, Miss Bilba,” Dori laughed. “Elves set themselves quite apart from everyone else, it wouldn’t do to compare. 

“Well, let me explain a little about my people,” Bilba started. “Hobbits don’t have quite the gender-disparities that others do, not as a whole, anyway. There are some that have looked askance at me for living alone without desire to court or marry and, yes, some have tittered away about it, but usually if there is no other good gossip to be had. Unfortunately, such motives were what brought a few daring and obtuse hobbit-lads to my smial to ‘pitch woo,’” Bilba quirked her fingers as if denoting a quotation, “saying they could rescue me from a life of spinsterhood and—they assumed—debauchery. Yes, some hobbits are a might too conservative when it makes little sense.”

“What did you do with such cads?” Dori’s face had gone a little red and puffed a little on her behalf.

“It depended. Some I could shoo away with a strong word or threats of words with their mothers. Others, I had to be a little more assertive. Let’s just say that I have a few garden tools with notches and broken handles.”

A chuckle made its way through the group, starting and ending with Dori, Ori, and Gandalf, making Bilba very aware of how much everyone was paying attention. 

“As I was saying,” Bilba cleared her throat. “I won’t be thought of as lesser for going along with all of you, even without my grandfather’s go-ahead. Part of being a respectable hobbit, especially one of both Baggins and Took heritage, is that I can protect my home and holdings. I’ve been able to do just that for the past ten years just being there, so it would be quite noteworthy if I was able to do that while being miles upon miles away.”

“A fine thing,” Dori said. “Another way in which our peoples are similar.”

“Sort of,” Ori said. “A dam is able to leave her home as she chooses, to work or travel, as many have done. Though, they tend to dress similar to our men, so—”

Dori reached around behind Bilba to cuff Ori in the back of the head 

“Oh,” Bilba whispered, “is that another dwarrow secret? I won’t tell, I promise.”

“Bilba,” Gandalf said, slowing his pace somewhat, “come keep an old man company, won’t you?”

She slowed down to match Gandalf and they were some yards trailing behind the rest. Bilba suspected so they could keep a quiet conversation, _The wizard could be more sprightly than a faunt when he had a mind for it_.  

“How are you fairing, my dear,” Gandalf asked, lighting his pipe. Bilba pulled hers from her pack and took his offered light, after arranging her weed in the bowl.

“Very well, I think. And, you? How are your joints?”

“Fine. Though, I think they would have been better had I been able to sleep in my normal bed before adjourning on the cold ground of last night.”

“I suppose,” Bilba sniffed. “But, I did have a dwarf king in my home a day early, with no warning about any guests. He needed a comfortable place to sleep.”

“Just so,” Gandalf blew a smoke cloud in the shape of a pecking hen from his pipe. “The easy chair in the parlour was comfortable enough.”

Bilba had to credit Gandalf for knowing what to say to poke at her innate inclination towards politeness. Her Baggins pride, however, was at war with her Baggins manners, and she could not see herself apologizing. Her Took joviality swung in with the suggestion of surprising the old buzzard with a bag of Old Toby for the road. She nodded to herself and took a draw on her own pipe, puffing out a sequence of circles and swirls dancing amongst each other.

At the head of the line, Thorin’s jaw clenched and his teeth grated against one another. Similar to Miss Baggins’s inner turmoil, Thorin tortured himself between the need to be the one walking along side her, the image he needed to maintain of the stoic leader, and the worry that always weighed upon him, why he held himself away from others, especially now.

He would strain his neck to look towards where Bilba was now laughing and talking with the blasted Tharkun. He had hoped his observations would have gone unnoticed, feigning a crick in his back that he was in constant need of stretching. On one such occasion, he did manage a loud pop at the base of his neck, causing himself to wince and Balin to chuckle at his king’s attempt at subterfuge, then to laugh out right when Dwalin landed a hearty clap just below where the king had hurt himself.

“I don’t think that anyone would look at you sideways for choosing to walk and talk with the wee lass," Balin said in Khuzdul. "She is yer One, afterall. Your unwillingness to act on your own and her behalf might be why the lads are paying her special mind.”

“It would be improper,” Thorin replied.

“Bullshit,” Dwalin said in clear Westron and loud enough for Bilba to go a little pink in the ears all the way at the back of the line. Thorin shoved the large warrior off the path for it and was about to entertain the notion of a brawl when a whoop went up from Bifur in the middle.

“Ten gold pieces says the lass is queen before the Greenwood!” Bofur called out.

“I say our king holds out until Erebor’s taken back proper,” came a shout from Nori, Bifur and Bombur nodded in agreement.

“I’m holding,” Balin called back, walking towards the center and gathering the sacks of coins to be dispersed when someone or someones win the pool.

Thorin saw Bilba needing to be pulled along by Ori as her face was buried in her hands. Gandalf had a hand on her head, patting it sympathetically. The sentiment of the gesture lost as he was laughing along with the rest of them. Thorin felt a heat rising on the back of his neck and beneath his beard and quickened his pace along the path.

When they got to Bree, Thorin stood waiting as the rest of the group passed him before he entered the gate himself. Bilba was the last to go through and he found himself at peace again by walking beside her, though she didn’t seem to notice him. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she muttered under her breath about “blasted wizard,” “tie his beard knots,” and “did it on purpose,” along with “see if I get him anything now.”

“Did what on purpose,” Thorin asked.

“Oh,” she said, and uncrossed her arms, choosing to fist her skirts instead, shaking out any lingering frustration to speak to him. “We were talking and, before I knew it, we were amongst everyone again and he tricked me into blabbing about you and about ‘Ones’ and that’s when all the shouting started.” She stopped and let out a huff before looking up at Thorin, who stopped with her. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted it secret. I didn’t mean to.”

Thorin looked at her soft, earnest eyes, struck again by her loveliness and how easy it would be for her to take everything from him, knowing it wasn’t in her to do anything of the kind. He wanted to tell her there is nothing to apologize for, that there is nothing that either of them should feel ashamed of, that he loves her.

“It’s alright,” he said. Bilba quirked her nose and attempted to smile, she thought she might have.

“Come along, you two,” Gandalf called and Bilba continued on towards the wizard and onto the Dancing Pony. Thorin followed, fixing scowl to his face, berating himself with every step.

Upon entering the pub, he watched as Balin, Gloin, and even Bilba bartered with the innkeeper. With her help, the group was able to get discounted rooms and meals for the rest of the day and next while they gathered supplies and prepared for the long road ahead.

While everyone went their way, Bilba went to find a place to sit and something to drink and eat. Ori joined her where they talked of the books that Bilba had brought for herself and she had loaned to Ori for the weeks ahead. Her spirits were brought higher with each passing word and Thorin, who could be spied at the bar, felt spurts of jealousy towards the young scribe for easing her worries in ways he could not do, or chose not to do, he couldn’t decide.

After the Bilba and Ori ate some chicken with potatoes, and drained a pitcher of cider between them, another hobbit dropped into the seat next to her, while she didn’t scold him for his impertinence, her countenance became shuttered. Ori looked towards Thorin and whispered something across the table to Bilba.

As Thorin edged away from the bar towards them, he was able to hear more and more of what the interloper was saying.

“It’s good to see young and proper _Mizz_ Baggins out and about.”

“Yes, Marroc. Did you hear what I told you? This is Ori, my friend.”

“Ah,” this _Marroc_ said and leaned closer to Bilba. “He seems a good sort. Didn’t think you fancied dumb and hairy,” then he placed his hand on her knee.

“That’s enough, Mr. Bumbleroot. How dare you?!” She took her plate and brought it down onto the hobbits head, sending porcelain shards and bits of food everywhere. “Drunk or no, the hobbits in Fair Downs will hear of this and you’ll be lucky to find anyone with whom to speak, let alone ‘make merry!’”

Both dwarves were stunned at the sight. When the hobbit-lad came to his wits, before he could stumble up and do whatever he was of a mind to do, Thorin picked him up by his scruff and pushed him out the pub door, the innkeeper making himself useful by holding it open.

“I’m afraid I’m a mess,” Bilba was looking down at herself, bits of food and gravy were scattered on her dress, face, and in her hair. “If you gentlemen would excuse me. 

Bilba began to go up the stairs towards her room with Thorin following after.

“Are you alright?” He wanted very much to marvel at her, to hold her, and to go out and finish what she started. 

“I’m fine,” she said when they were outside her room. “And in some need to be out of range of the _manliness_. Yavanna knows when I’ll get the chance again,” she muttered as she went into her room, slamming the door in his face.

“Well, I hope you’re not too suprised” a familiar voice came from just behind him. Thorin turned to see the troubled expression on Balin’s face.

“I did nothing,” Thorin pointed at Bilba’s door as if it could account for anything.

“Precisely, lad. You were trained better.”

After a moment of gaping, Thorin followed after his advisor back to the table where Ori was still sitting, the detritus of her supper appeared to have been mopped up. The king sat where Bilba had been, and Balin next to Ori. Ori, the poor boy, sat stock still across from the brooding king.

“Come along,” Balin chuckled, standing to take Ori by the elbow. “Let’s see if we can find some strong parchment and lasting ink, shall we?”

Thorin sat thinking, unaware of how long he had been there and of the flash of cornflower fluttering past him and into the chair opposite.

“You’re in my seat,” Bilba said. “I should be even more annoyed with you.”

Thorin looked up, a smile accompanying the great sense of ease whenever she was nearby. The blue of her dress complimented his royal colors well, he noted.

“Why should you be annoyed at all,” he asked, hoping to sound teasing. She smirked, but it didn’t appear to be amused.

“I’m annoyed that you feel the need to stay away from me and yet are possessive enough to send your heirs and guards to walk a perimeter around me, and to interfere where I had clearly already handled the matter.”

“I was being protective, not possessive.”

“That addresses my concerns, thank you,” Bilba said. “Honestly, my eyes feel as if they might roll out of my head when I argue semantics with you. Or talk with you at all.”

Thorin laughed a little and Bilba put up a hand to order something.

“I’ll have a stout and my companion would like your house brew,” she informed the waitress.

“Certainly, Miss,” she said with a bob. “Both on the house, Miss, as well as your dress freshly laundered in the morning.

“No, no. Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Bilba protested. “I’m more than happy to pay.”

“No,” Thorin said, “ _I_ will be more than happy to pay.”

“It was a good show you gave, Miss,” she young girl, side-eyeing Thorin, “and my da liked the example you made,” she curtseyed and went to fulfill the order.

“It was a good show,” Thorin said. “As was your prediction for what I like to drink. The Prancing Pony has one of my favorite beers.”

“You seem like the sort,” Bilba shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

When their drinks were served, Thorin raised his glass to her and she responded in kind.

“Are you still angry with me?”

“I just want to understand,” she said. “Two days ago, you were full of affection past the point of propriety and now you act as if I don’t exist. I know I must be a disappointment.”

“Never think that,” Thorin grabbed her hand. “Please. I could not live with myself if you thought I would want anyone else. 

“What about what everyone else thinks?”

Thorin struggled. He had a duty to his people, but he didn’t care that the others knew of his feelings toward her, though he wasn’t sure if that was true. He didn’t want to care. He knew he had to be the imposing king of a displaced people, affection for anyone—be they his own nephews or his One—felt as if it would be out of order. He knew he didn’t want her to be burdened with what lay ahead of them, in the mouth of a dragon or in the wake of dragon sickness. Bilba slipped her hand from his, and patted it.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Master Oakenshield.” She got up and left, taking her stout with her.

The next day when everyone was accounted for and with their business completed, the group of fifteen mounted their ponies and horse to venture into the wilds. Before leaving, Bilba decided against wearing strictly men’s clothing, though she could see the economy of it. Her desire to prove herself as a hobbit and a woman was ever at the fore, so she wore an odd combination of buttondown shirt beneath a cordoroy jumper, a secure leather belt around her middle, and short pants peeking out beneath her skirts. She also cut her hair, much to the aggrevation of all dwarrow present, particularly one surly king.

“I cut it to my chin, honestly,” she said after many minutes of muffled talk and fingers pointing at her head, “I had half a mind to crop it all to the roots what with the heat and no bathing facilities in the woods. Silly men.”

Once the hub-bub about hair peetered out, the company members, at Balin’s instructions in Iglishmek, urged Bilba towards the front of the line, slightly to the side and behind Thorin. His sleep was rough, his head muzzy, and mood very close to a pout, though he did very well at not showing it. Suddenly, his thoughts felt clearer and, when he looked around in his saddle, he saw why.

“Good morning, Miss Baggins.”

“Good morning, Master Oakenshield,” Bilba’s nose was pointed up and sat as straight in her seat as she was able, though looked as if she could lose her balance at any moment.

“I would prefer you to not call me that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Would ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Highness’ be more suiting?”

Thorin winced, having hoped she would not interpret his actions in such a way. Understanding completely why anyone would.

“Bilba, I would be loathed to have you think so poorly of me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bilba maintained her haughty posture for as long as she was able. The road getting rougher, however, caused her pony to jostle her. She finally gave in to the sagging she was more inclined toward and clung to the horn of her saddle.

“I would like to do as you suggested before we left,” he said, hoping to start again and not comment on her discomfort. “I would be of a mind to treat as much of this journey as possible as an opportunity for courtship.”

“How would that go, exactly?” She said, attempting to straighten her back while keeping a solid grasp on the hard leather of the saddle, “Between the promises of dismemberment, bawdy talk, and a brooding king, I’m not sure when we would have the time.”

“Like this,” Thorin brought his pony closer and helped Bilba to sit straight in her saddle, to not buckle her knees or elbows, and to show her how to hold onto the reins. “Now you should be able to sit comfortably and be able to control your mount.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, that is better, thank you.” After a moment of peaceable trotting, Bilba relaxed more. “I still feel as if I might fall off at any moment.”

“At least you’re paying attention,” Thorin said. “It will get easier in time.”

That night, they made camp amongst a cropping of rocks. The fire burned merrily while the individual members of the company relaxed after dinner, some drifting to sleep. Bilba attempted to find a comfortable position to curl up in against the ground, but gave it up when a loud snore erupted from Gloin, issuing a spray of spittle and fluttering moths from his mouth.

She picked up one of the wayward apples to give to her pony, Myrtle, with whom she was able to begin a bond after Thorin’s initial guidance. Thorin himself was reclining against some of the outlying rocks, gaining some sleep before his turn at the watch. The lines in his body were tense and Bilba thought she would very much like to see him truly at peace. She wondered if the closest he came to it was when he was in the Shire with just her.

She supposed it was good, actually, that Thorin had been keeping his distance. It was, really. How she managed to get to a point to miss his attention was baffling, she thought. He was handsome, surely. Thick black hair, strong features, and eyes you could drown in, but what are aesthetics? What good are attractive features when a dullard or a braggart wear them, or as her parents would in-tone on occasion, _Lovely trappings fade over dust-covered mathoms._

“There you are,” she said, holding the apple in her palm for Myrtle to take. “Such a pretty girl.”

 _However_ , Bilba continued her thoughts on a sigh _, Thorin is neither a dullard nor a braggart._ In fact, he’s said exceptionally little about himself beyond being a king, _Which is saying quite a lot_. But, would he have such staunch loyalists? And, would he not go on and on about himself, about his achievements and the like, especially if his intent was to woo? Bilba reasoned not.

Yes, she found him attractive, extremely so. Is she interested or even ready to be his wife? _That,_ she shook her head at the thought _, is something to consider much,_ much _later, if at all._ As ridiculous as it felt, as odd as it would appear, she wanted his friendship first. She felt the spark of kinship with him first in her smial, as they’ve talked, and especially on their ride between Bree-land and their campsite. _Someone to talk to, who understands,_ she smiled and leaned her head against Myrtle’s front flank, _who seems to hate titles the way she does_.

A scream rent the night and Bilba’s head snapped up fast enough to almost break her neck. Her breathing came fast in her throat.

“Orcs,” Kili said. She turned and saw the brothers sitting near the fire, against a great rock. Their features thrown into lights and shadows, voices grim and floating.

“Throat cutters,” Fili said, possibly noticing how she reached for her own neck as if to protect it.

“There’d be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.”

“Yes,” Bilba’s voice was faint, carried away with a second stretch of screams. The other dwarves woke with the sounds, though none saw as Thorin snapped awake at the first screech, nor how he paid attention to Bilba’s paleness.

“They strike,” Kili said.

“I know what they do,” Bilba nodded quickly, though only Thorin seemed to have heard her.

“—in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep,” Kili continued. “Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”

The brothers began to laugh, not realizing or, perhaps even seeing, Bilba’s great discomfort. She hoped that’s not why they were laughing. 

“That’s enough,” Thorin’s voice was low, though quieted all within range of it. “You think that's funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

“We didn't mean anything by it,” Kili looked at his hands, Fili watched his uncle while he passed through the group of recently awoken dwarrow.

“No you didn't. You know nothing of the world,” Thorin said, pausing by Bilba and offering her his hand. “Come, Bilba.”

She took it and went him just a few yards away, not out of earshot of the company, but far enough to be out of sight. 

“Are you well,” he asked when they came near to the edge of the cliff face.

“Yes, thank you,” she cleared her throat and sat down as far from the prescipice as she could, but not so far from Thorin. “I don’t believe they meant anything by it,” she said after a moment.

“They did not,” he conceded and sat next to her. “They should have known better than to jest about such things. It is an insult to the fallen to do so, to say nothing of how you and, quite probably, the other members of our company felt after.”

She was about to relate why she was so effected when she caught snatches of the tale Balin was relating not so far away, about madness and beheadings, great rivers of blood, Azog, a monster amongst even the orcs, and the greatness of a man who would be King, the man she watched while the story was told. The images flashed behind her eyes, the words from her books mingled with them. So real, so far away, but present in the eyes of the man next to her.

“What happened to him? The pale orc?”

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came,” his voice came as a whisper. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

She knew it all before, she told him he did. But, the way his name and title hung in the night, the way his brow and shoulders stooped as if beneath a great weight, she began to understand the life, the living, outside the inks and pages of her many books. She put her hand on his arm, this real hero’s arm. When he looked at her, his eyes were gleaming and sharp, piercing her heart.

“I promise you,” she said, “I will become worthy to fight beside you, to stand beside you at all.”

His eyes softened and he held out his arm in invitation and she scooted over underneath, wanting to take his weight, let him rest. But, his arm and strength pulled her in and held her against him. She allowed it, knowing his safety and knowing better who he was exactly, then drifted to sleep against him.

When she awoke, she wasn’t alone. Of course, that was because the dwarf she had fallen asleep with roused her with a few gentle nudges, eventually depositing her on her feet. Thorin bumped his forehead lightly with hers, in a better mood than when she fell asleep, before she was really sure what was happening. He then went to wake the rest of the company with a barked command.

Bilba went to gather her things and settle everything on her own back and on her pony’s. When everyone was about ready to depart, she was about to attempt a hobbit’s leap into her saddle, she felt two large hands grasp her shin to hoist her all the way up. She was so startled she nearly jerked and kicked the being supporting her, not intentionally, of course.

“Miss Bilba,” Fili said, Kili next to him, “we’re sorry for our talk last night. It was unbecoming of dwarrow—”

“Or anyone,” Kili interrupted.

“And, we would like to make amends.” Fili finished and both brothers bowed their heads.

Bilba sat stunned for a moment, her mouth open like a cod’s.

“Well,” she said and reached down to pat each head. “It’s quite alright, no amends necessary.”

Their heads popped up, each with a wide grin and crinkled eyes.

“Not so, Miss Bilba,” Kili started.

“We have dishonored ourselves,” Fili continued.

“And, must make things right,” Kili finished. “What would you have us do?”

Bilba giggled, catching their mirth, but also cocked her head as she also saw the thread of sincerety between them.

“First things first, I suppose,” she said, “though if it’s all you’ll do, I’ll be happy. Just call me ‘Bilba.’ Not ‘Mistress’ or ‘Miss’ anything. Just ‘Bilba.’”

“What about—” Kili was unable to finishe his query when Dwalin came behind the two, clasped them both on the shoulders and squeezed.

“On your mounts, you two.”

They made hasty bows to her, then went to their own ponies and the company’s journey commenced for the day. She wasn’t left alone long, however, when she was encompassed by a prince on each side, accompanied by Ori on the other side of Fili. Thorin, Dwalin, Balin rode just in front of them, the rest of the dwarrow making up the middle, with Gandalf at the back again chatting with Bifur.

“Alright,” Kili said, “we’re all friends now. Let’s play ‘I never.’”

“What’s that,” Ori asked.

“Kili,” Thorin said in warning.

“It’s a game where each person in a group takes turns saying something they never did,” Bilba said. “hence the name ‘I Never. And, the other players have to admit whether they did ‘it’ or not,” Bilba said. “It works best if there is some sort strong alcohol available—I prefer firewhiskey—so that everyone who confesses to ‘having done something’ has to take a shot. I’ve found,” she continued, ignoring every gaping mouth in her direction, as well as her fierce blush, “that when siblings are playing against siblings, the game devolves into a shouting match, if not an all-out fist fight. If that’s all you’re after, Kili, then why not suggest a good spar between yourselves. I doubt anyone would mind the spectacle, I certainly wouldn’t.” 

She finished, looking serenly at her companions.

The silence ended when Balin began hacking around a horsefly he caught in his still open mouth. The rest of the dwarves began laughing, hooting, and Bilba had to sustain a few hearty slaps to the back.

“Well, that’s it,” Kili said above the racket, “you’re my new best friend. Bombur! Toss up that bourbon you think we don’t know about!”

Ori about fell out of his saddle.

The rest of the day passed in a shouting match between the older and younger dwarrow about the merits of good drink and secrets on the road, along with a few bar songs the topic inspired. Bilba managed to sidle next to Thorin.

“Is that the sort of game a budding diplomat, one of the heirs to the Thane of the Shire, takes part in?” Thorin asked.

“I never,” she said with a wink. “Every once in a while, the rest of us got a little bored. I’m sure that’s never happened to you.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t have the time,” he said. “When I got drunk, I got to it. I didn’t dally about with games and flirting.”

“I never flirted,” she said. “Wait a moment. Where did you get the idea I was an heir to the Thane?”

“I used one of your own ploys,” Thorin said, holding up his hand to signal a stop. “We camp here tonight.”

After he dismounted, he helped her down, then went off with Gandalf to inspect where they were camping. It was a small plot of land, with a small vegetable garden and a house. A few minutes later, Gandalf stormed away, muttering about “ridiculous, arrogant, fool.” Bilba was about to call after him when Thorin began setting chores for everyone. She turned away from the packs she had just helped remove from the rest of the ponies to help Bombur start dinner by looking throughout the garden for something to add. She took a proper look around and saw that the house appeared to be burned and gutted, some of the trees surrounding the place bent back, and most of the garden appeared to have been trampled on.

“Anything?” Bombur came from behind her holding up his travelling pot. Bilba plunked in a head of cabbage and found a potato plant that was rife with golden tubors. She helped to wash everything from the property’s well, then to carve and peel, though letting Bombur take the lead in the actual cooking.

When night fell, she reclined against her own pack until Bofur brought a couple of bowls for her to take to Fili and Kili who were watching the ponies, a task given to them, she suspected, to keep them from trying to draw her into yet another drinking game.

Soon after she found them, they commissioned her to perform her first act of true burglary. Trolls, three humongous, ugly, smelly trolls had been stealing their ponies. _How did we not know they were here_ , she thought, her inner voice high and panicked. After a few seconds of scouting and listening to them, she found that the nearest one to where the ponies were being held had a rusted knife strapped to his belt. _Convenient and inconvenient all at once_.

With the practice she was afforded by dodging relatives, unwanted suitors, salesmen, and the like either within the walls of her own smial or, defter still, during a calm market day, she was indeed able to get the knife and had cut the ponies free from the trolls’s makeshift pen. The poor dears, however, were too scared to nacker or whinnie, let alone move from their enclosure.

Thankfully, Bilba will think later, that problem will have been solved by the great distraction of a dwarf king bursting through the clearing shouting at the top of his lungs, swinging his sword, and being followed by the rest of the company. The trolls got up, not as distracted as one might suppose they would be, as thick as they are, and begin defending against the sudden onslaught of dwarrow. Fists flew, blades cut, axes swung, sparks of metal and cracks of wood sang in the night air.

“What are you doing?!” Bilba’s voice climbed over the fight, causing dwarves and trolls alike to know where she was. She dodged and ran around them, using the knife to stick at any troll leg or limb that came within range.

“What am I doing?!” Thorin’s voice came from somewhere. “Rescuing you, foolish woman! WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?!”

“Rescuing our ponies,” she dodged again, but tripped, “You—OH!”

“That’s it,” one of the trolls said, holding Bilba up by an arm and leg with another troll on the other side holding her other limbs. “Lay down your arms or we rip ‘ers off.”

Amongst half the dwarves struggling in sacks, while the other half spun slowly on a spit over the trolls’s fire, all Bilba could do between seething and panicking, was wonder how they were going to get out of this. _Breathe, Bilba. Breathe. You’ve read about trolls. Mama_ told _you about them, too…what was it…?_

“Never mind the seasoning,” she heard one of the trolls say, “we ain't got all night! Dawn ain't far away, let's get a move on! I don't fancy been turned to stone.”

“You know,” she said, somehow getting to her feet in the confines of the burlap bag, “you’re making a mistake!”

The trolls turned on her.

“With the seasoning, I mean. Dwarves are awfully manky things, really, sage just wouldn’t cut it.”

“What’d’you know about cooking dwarf?” One of the trolls—the one who got his knife back, who was jabbering about cooking techniques—poked her in the shoulder, nearly sending her back into the pile.

“Plenty,” she said, recovering and schooling her breathing. “What do you think I was going to do with this lot, eh? I was herding.”

“Go on, then,” he prompted.

“Well, you see,” she stuttered, she really didn’t think she’d get this far in the conversation, “the secret with cooking dwarves is,” she had to admire them, really. For trolls, they had more patience than she expected. They waited an entire half a second to prod her again, harder.

“S-s-skin them first!” She said, wincing at the outrage of the dwarves pinned behind and in front of her. “Yes, I’m afraid you must. All hairy, with thick hides. All that goodness wrapped up tight.”

“That’s a load of rubbish,” the troll spinning the spit said.

“Yeah,” the other, the one without the knife, agreed. “Had plenty of dwarves with skin on, boots and furry hats, too. Nothing wrong with a bit of raw dwarf,” he picked up Bombur and holding him above his mouth. “Nice ‘n cwunchy.”

“No! Not that one! He’s sick,” her throat was going raw.

“Sick?” The troll paused before dropping Bombur into his maw.

“Yes, sick! He’s got worms…worms in his tubes!” She felt the excuse lame, even in her panicked voice, but the troll almost threw Bombur back onto the pile with a yelp. Behind the clearing, moving amongst the trees and rocks, Bilba thought she saw a gray hat.

“What would you have us do, then?” The knife wielding dwarf jabbed her again, this time sending her back onto her back “Let them all go?”

“Well,” she tried to prop herself back onto her elbows.

He drew the knife’s point closer to her throat, “Do you take us for fools?!”

“The dawn will take you all!” Gandalf’s voice rang out, splitting a great boulder with his staff, revealing the first beams of day, freezing the trolls into flaking rock even as they howled and tried to shield themselves. The dwarves cheered and Bilba wanted to faint.

Soon, everyone was freed and clapping Bilba on the back for her clever, though morbid tongue. She’ll certainly have bruises from all this comraderie, she thought and rubbed her shoulder.

“Bilba,” Thorin stood behind her. “May we talk?” He gestured out of the clearing and Bilba followed him to a stream, he gestured to it so she could splash her face and drink her fill of water to calm her still frayed nerves. Afterward, she turned back to Thorin, hoping to trade tokens of esteem. She was surprised to see his brow lowered and mouth pulled into a frown.

“You should not have done that,” he said.

“Um,” her heart sped up. She thought he would be pleased, that she did well. She didn’t want any accolades, just sweet words that she earned this time. “I didn’t mean any of what I said at all! It was just to distract them long enough, you see.” She would have gone on, but he stepped closer.

“You should not have come,” he said. “You could have been harmed. Killed. You’re no warrior, despite how well you handle crockery or a rolling-pin. We’re close enough to Bree,” he straightened and looked down his nose at her, “go there, then on to home. I’ll not have my One harmed or my quest disrupted.”

She wondered if this was anything akin to being punched in the stomach; she heard a high ringing in her ears, tears welled up, and all her breath felt pushed out of open mouth. He turned and walked back. She felt bile rise up and she had to say something, anything, before he could pass his order of dismissal.

“We might be Ones” she said before he could get too far. He stopped a beat and when he turned around she continued, “But that doesn’t mean we would ever be able to stand each other. It’s clear you don’t know me, that you’re ashamed of me, if the way you’ve been treating me so far is any indication. It’s clear above everything else that you don’t trust me. And,” she huffed out with slumping shoulders, “why should you? And, why should I trust you?” She passed by him, leaving him pale and rigid.

They remained parted when the company followed after Gandalf and Thorin to a cave with the troll hoard. She stayed outside, just close enough to the company to make sure she wouldn’t be left behind, but far enough away from the stench and to wipe away the tears that had no business streaming down her cheeks.

“Here you are, Bilba,” Gandalf said after he left the cave, handing her a sheathed blade. “This is about your size.”

“I don’t know how to use a sword, Gandalf,” Bilba said, her eyes still downcast.

“And, I hope you never have to learn,” the wizard replied, stooping enough to put it in her hands and make eye contact with her. “I hope that the next time I am able to visit your delightful little library, I’ll see it hanging above the mantleplace. But, as you know through your stories and experiences so far in the wild, my dear, it is always best to prepare for the worst. And, this blade is best suited for the job. Forged by the high elves, it will glow when orcs or goblins are near,” Gandalf offered her a smile and walked away.

She sniffed, wiping at her nose and cheeks with her sleeves. She was amongst a group of males anyway, and males too engrossed in the treasures they had found and talks of trolls to make note or care about her lack of hygene. Then she tried to hitch her sword to her belt. Seeing her, Thorin approached and, silently, showed her how it was meant to ride on her hip. Not too low to drag on the ground, but not so high as to jab her in the ribs when she moved.

“I know dwarrow are a bit insular,” Bilba said while he finished tightening the strap of her belt.

“I mean, some of the older dwarves don’t spare me a look unless they have to and that’s fine, I’ll earn their trust.”

“I do trust you, Bilba,” Thorin used his crouched position to look into her eyes, talking even as she shook her head. “I would never have you think that I don’t trust you, that I feel shame or dissapointment in you. You must understand, Bilba, I am at war with myself. This quest, you, I cannot choose.

“Who said that you must?” she said. “I’m confused and lost, especially now after…” She sniffed and she gave her sword an experimental tug, causing his hands to move away from her belt. “Thank you for helping me with my pony and my sword.”

He stood up and picked up her hand before she could leave.

“I want to give you the right answer, Bilba.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” She said and slipped her hand out from his. “Maybe there isn’t one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a harder chapter for me, as I'm out of practice writing any kind of fiction that's this long, and as I am an emotionally stunted individual my own self. But, I had fun and am trying to get a feel for pacing. Not like those guys who worked on DoS, hey-oh.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr for weirdness the likes of which you've never seen*: http://capesandteapots.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> *Statement may or may not be completely and terrifyingly accurate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have it be as long as my previous ones, hell, it's length would have set a new standard the way it was going. But, I felt that breaking it up into different POVs, then merging them back into the single narrative would work best.
> 
> One thing inspired by [this](http://flatbear.tumblr.com/post/78084279725/i-find-it-hard-to-believe-that-there-was-a-naked).

“Excuse me,” Bilba’s voice broke out from the middle of the dwarves, her little body following it. “Lord Elrond?”

Elrond turned at the soft voice and dipped a bow to her curtsy.

“My dear Bilba,” he said. “What brings you so far to the east and with such an eccentric company?” His eyes cast around, their glint matching his amused voice.

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Adventure, I suppose. I finally decided to see what my mother and father were rattling on about for myself. I was wondering, though, might I find a place to freshen up?”

“Of course, my dear,” he said and moved aside to let her pass by, “I’ll show you the way.”

“Miss Baggins,” Thorin stepped forward and reached out, wanting her hand safely enclosed in his again.

“I’ll see you all later,” she said, nodding at them and disappeared down the hall with Elrond and a few elleths.

The dwarves and Gandalf were lead another direction to where they were promised a place to rest and eat, if they wished it. Thorin wanted to run after the hobbitess, throw her over his shoulder, and take her to where the rest of the company was, not before finding somewhere private to talk and assure himself of her well-being. He didn’t care if she was angry with him still. The run-in with mad wizards and orcs riding wargs left him half-crazed with worry for his company, who could have informed any of his enemies of their whereabouts, but mostly for her safety. After he jumped into the secret entrance to Rivendell after his company, he gathered her close and refused to let go, until the _elves_ forced him to push her behind him. In his musings he made a few steps to carry out his plan of de-kidnapping when Balin laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Later, Thorin. Let the lass sort herself out.”

“Aye,” Dwalin nudged him in the towards where everyone had disappeared to. “She won’t think highly of you for getting in the way of her cleaning habits. ‘Course, I can’t imagine her opinion of ya gettin’ any lower…”

Thorin growled at them and was about to make off after his hobbit until he thought better of it; she pushed away from him and left him bereft. _Deservedly so._ She needed time. With a sigh and allowed himself to be drawn away. He found the rest of his company outside a suite of rooms, which the dwarves had no intention of using, except for perhaps Balin and Thorin himself. Instead, they deposited their gear in the open-air foyer and balcony to set up camp, then proceeded in their own milling around. They mended clothes, sharpened their weapons, some left to see about their surroundings, none (but Nori) going off on their own.

“I think we need a bath,” Dori said, shaking out the dirt of his coat.

“There’s s’posed to be some in ready in these rooms,” Fili said, jerking his thumb towards them.

“Or, we could go see where they took Bilba,” Kili said, standing and waiting for the go ahead.

“No,” Thorin peeled away his outer layers, leaving his black tunic and trousers, then leaned against the balcony railing. “Let her have her peace. She’ll join us when she’s ready.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” another elf came upon them, tall like they all are, with flaxen hair down to his waist. His skin, however, was marred with streaks of scars across his face and neck. “I am Glorfindel and Imladris has many great fountains where the water runs cool and clear, suitable after journeys and near-death escapes.”

“Glorfindel?” Dwalin, surprisingly, spoke up. “I heard o’ya. Warrior from times long gone, only one to battle a Balrog and come back to talk of it.” He nodded, stripping his back of (most of) his weapons.

“I am. And you are?”

“Dwalin, son of Fundin. My brother, Balin. I’ll let the others make their own introductions as they please,” he said, casting his eyes around. “You’d lead us to sully yer Lord Elr’nd’s sparkling sprinkler’s, eh?”

“I’ve found that after unpleasant escapades, be they with orc, goblin, demon, or dignitaries, some revelary is in order. And, I would hate for your opinions of all elves to be so tainted.”

The company murmered, looking between themselves and back at the serene elf standing at the peripheral of their gathering.

“Uncle?” Fili asked eventually, looking to Thorin. The king nodded and watched as the dwarrow ran pell-mell out and away from their small camp. The legendary elven warrior dipped his head, which Thorin could do nothing else but return, and followed after.

Now that he was alone, Thorin was caught by his own stench and went into his room, hauling his belongings with him. The room was large, with the _somehow appropriately sized furniture_ and a waiting bath on another, smaller balcony.

He stripped himself of the rest of his clothing and sank into the steaming water, imagining the bath oils seeping into his skin and hair. After taking the time to scrub his skin and wash his hair, he allowed the smells of rosemary, sandlewood, and something exotic running beneath the familiar scents sooth him and he allowed his mind to wander far afield of stinking orcs and black blood, even of meeting one of the most respected warriors, indeed beings, in the history of the world.

However, he thought of his home in the Blue Mountains, its purple crags shielding a fraction of his displaced people. His sister leading them as regent and how he will bring them all home. His greater purpose as a king, with a gentle and fiery queen next to him. How the Arkenstone would twinkle over their heads, it’s glow dim compared to her.

Her soft skin, pink lips, her honeyed curls, and eyes deep as pools with blue flame shooting from their depths. How she had cut her hair as if to keep his courting at bay. Her voice clipped and brittle when she spoke to him, and her ringing laughter for his nephews. Her eyes alight, alive, swirling with unshed tears the last he looked into them. Her eyes not meeting his since.

His jaw clenched and he felt as if he could crack his teeth if he tried hard enough, it would give him something new to be concerned with.

“Your highness,” Gandalf said, standing across from him. Thorin kicked at the water, his head slammed against the tub’s side as he horizontally crashed into the water. Half a second later, he broke the surface of the water again, coughing through the soaps and oils, glaring at the wizard once he recovered.

“I was unaware you could walk through the air unseen, Tharkun,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “A trait you share with our elven _hosts_.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You were so lost in your thoughts of our burglar that you would not have seen me until I either spoke or struck you with my staff. The latter I might yet do.”

“What do you want, Gandalf?” Thorin asked, his back rigid once more, attempting regal aloofness while stark naked with soap in his ears.

“I think you know, Master Oakenshield. The heart of my friend is not to be toyed with.”

The force of his sudden rage rivalled the temperature of the water, “I did nothing of the kind!”

“No? She has not been herself, and you are the variable,” Gandalf huffed. “You will fix this, Thorin. Come, there is a meal waiting.”

Uncaring for the wizard’s opinion, having had quite enough of it, Thorin stood and proceeded to dry himself and dress, making sure to take as much time as possible to set himself to rights, adding a few intricacies to his braids than he would normally do. When he was ready, Gandalf stood at the door, opening it and passing before Thorin.

They walked a few paces, Thorin finally giving voice to his concerns, or at least hinting at them.

“Who will fetch Bilba?” He asked.

“An attendant, I am sure, if she comes at all,” Gandalf replied.

“Perhaps I should—”

“She is being well taken care of,” Gandalf’s voice echoed. “If she chooses to join us this evening, you will see that for yourself.”

They passed the rest of the walk in silence, Thorin planning what he would do, what he would say when he first saw her, how he would coax her to follow him to somewhere private. Unfortunately, even as he settled on a course of action, he did not see his One, nor did Bilba make an appearance to dinner, nor their host, and Thorin could not help the unease and suspicion rising in his heart. The rest of the company were there, however, as was Glorfindel, sitting amongst the Ri and Ur families. 

“Has anyone seen our burglar?” He asked, taking a place across from his heirs and next to Dwalin and Balin, earning a sharp looks from the brothers and Gandalf, sitting at the head of the table.

“We have,” Kili said. “Ran into her on our way out of the fountains.”

“Poor thing. Face as red as one of her tomaters she goes on about,” Bofur said loud enough for even Oin to hear, the company laughing and slapping their knees.

“We think she got more than she bargained for when she looked over one of the railings,” Fili said.

“Did you talk to her?” Thorin asked, ignoring as best as he was able the protective and mortified feelings he was having on Bilba’s behalf.

“We did, your majesty,” Glorfindel spoke up. Thorin looked from where the elf had been to where he was, standing behind his nephews, moving as quick as thought it seemed. “She sends her regrets, but she is dining privately with Lord Elrond, Princess Arwen, and the Princes Elladan and Elrohir. After our meal, I am going there myself to give the lady a brief tour near her room, for as long as she is awake, that is. If you would like, I will pass on my regards to her.”

“That would be fine, Master Elf,” Balin spoke to cut over Thorin’s inevitable demands to be taken to her. “We thank you.”

“A pleasure, certainly,” Glorfindel replied. “She seems a unique and lovely being, I am more than a little envious of you.”

“What mean you by that?” Thorin’s fist clenched at his side.

“Only that I wish I had more time to learn of her and her people, your majesty,” Glorfindel gave a small smile and returned to his place amongst the other dwarrow. Thorin sat seething, he could imagine steam wicking from his skin.

“She told us her parents knew Lord Elrond and his family,” Fili spoke up after a moment.

“They didn’t want to wait too long for a reunion, apparently,” Kili said.

Thorin breathed in and out a few minutes, absorbing the information, not hearing any and all ambient chatter, if there was any. _Surely they wouldn’t be sitting_ watching _me_ , he thought, his face resting against his joined hands, propped up by his elbows on the table.

“How did she look?” Gandalf asked, at this Thorin could feel his ears twitch, waiting for the answer.

“Tired,” Fili said. “Like the rest of us.”

“Lucky she didn’t get herself killed or anyone else with that little knife of hers waving about,” Dwalin grunted and quaffed his ale. “Oughtta think abou’ givin’ her some lessons with that thing.”

“I thought the same,” Glorfindel spoke up again. “While she is here, I would not be adverse to giving her some instruction. I will ask.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thorin’s tone was menacing, low, and brooked no argument. The elf’s face was pensive, then he smirked.

“I will ask her,” he said again with a nod and a pointed look at Thorin.

“A kind offer,” Gandalf said. “I thank you. I will not have my friend harmed and your tutelage, as brief as it must be,” Gandalf gave an aggrieved sigh, “would be an honor.”

“Will the lass recognize it?” Balin asked.

“Of course she will,” Thorin said, dropping his hands to the table and leaning back. “She is a scholar.”

The next day brought feelings of relaxation and contentment for most of the company, but for Thorin. He failed to find a comfortable position in his bed, thinking that perhaps he had grown used to the hard ground and hay-stuffed mattresses, ignoring the fact that he had been playing rope-war with himself and the knowledge that he knew how to resolve the stalemate. He needed to talk to his One.

Alas, when the dwarf king set out that morning to do just that, he was unable to find Bilba Baggins. All day he searched and no matter where he looked he could not find evidence that she was in Rivendell at all. His heart squeezed at the thought, _Had she left me? Was part of her exhaustion due to his inattentiveness? To his words when last they spoke?_

His thoughts of their fight came to him often between the moment she left him near that river to when he scoured the elven sanctuary, looking and listening for her. Each time the memory came to the fore, his words had devolved into harsher tones and grunts, her eyes swimming more and more, but the words she uttered then never failed to soothe him, as hurt as she sounded when saying them. She wouldn’t leave, if just to spite him. _She won’t leave me_.

“Your highness,” someone called from behind him as he stalked down another open-air hallway. Thorin turned and saw the Lord Elrond himself walking towards him.

“My Lord,” Thorin said, attempting to keep as much venom from his voice.

“I regret I was unable to join you and your companions for supper last night,” the elf said.

“I understand you had more interesting company,” Thorin shook himself internally, remembering that Lord Elrond was keeping Bilba somewhere, choosing not to dwell on the rest of the help the elf was offering.

“I could not say ‘more interesting,’ but delightful, nonetheless, as I’m sure you know,” Thorin’s lip curled at the barb. _Elves_. “There is about to be a feast for your company, if you will walk with me, we are bound to come upon a few of your companions on the way.”

That had Thorin walking along next to Elrond, impossible to keep down his excitement of seeing Bilba, though angered that she had been no doubt kept away from him, like a hostage in exhange for his good behavior. It irked him further to discover any “companions” who might have joined them on the way to the feast was Gandalf and that Bilba hadn’t arrived yet, _if she does at all_.

He was seated at a separate table from his company with Gandalf and Lord Elrond.

Knowing it was pertinent to get as much help from the elf as possible, Thorin handed over the map of Erebor to Lord Elrond and discovered yet another thing to aggravate the already ill-tempered king, the moon runes that were hidden within the parchment could not be read for another week.

After that, the conversation and food left him again feeling disinterested in his present occupation, but served to renew his resolve. Thorin readied himself to make an excuse to leave and resume his search of Bilba, and as he was about to voice his valediction, Gandalf stood from his seat, spreading his arms wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want some more crazed lunacy (redundant!)? Follow me on [my tumblr](http://capesandteapots.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanging out in Rivendell some more, this time with a little more purpose.

Bilba reposed in the bronze bathtub, letting the smells of bath oil and her chamomile tea relax her. This was her second bath. The first was to rid herself of the weeks of dirt and grime caked on her skin and in her hair; it took a disgusting amount of time to clean her feet.

The second bath was to treat her scrubbed and scalded body and frayed nerves, to say nothing of her worn emotions. She would never deny to herself that a few tears were not just of pulling at stubborn snarls, though she would admit it to no one else. Least of all _stupid, stubborn, moronic dwarves and with their idiot sense of honor and poorer sense of direction._

She shook her head, attempting to cast aside those venomous thoughts with the cascades of water splashing from her curls, but to no avail.

It had been a few weeks since the trollshaws as the company trekked further east. Bilba and Thorin did not speak much, if at all, beyond salutations and orders given and received. Bilba would have felt quite lonely, indeed, if not for the wizard and two dwarf princes who had taken it upon themselves to be her companions. Sometimes Ori and Bofur would join her when their families weren’t in need of them, but the young brothers were a constant for Bilba and she was grateful.

They talked about their families, their skills, trades, and the like. A favorite pass-time was trading stories of mischief in their younger years. During a shared watch, Bilba even told them of the secret passages and hidden doors throughout her smial, that they would be welcome to visit and try to figure them out when the quest was all through.

“That’s excellent,” Kili had said.

“Yes, we’ll accompany you back to the Shire,” Fili chimed in,

“Retrieve your things and take you back with us.”

“Not before exploring your hobbity labyrinth for a few weeks.”

“Oh, boys,” Bilba said. “I don’t know if I’d be welcome to stay.”

“Of course you would be,” Fili said, putting his arm over her shoulders. “If not by anyone else,” Fili looked glanced over at the lump that was his uncle, “then certainly by us.”

“Yeah,” Kili said, mirroring Fili’s action of putting his arm over her shoulders, covering his brother’s arm. “Besides, our mother will love you.”

“Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind meeting the Lady Dís. Especially not after all of those stories.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Kili said, tapping her nose, “those are secrets twixt the three of us. Or you’ll have dwarves and hobbits alike running amok in all the ways and byways in your cozy little hillock. Deal?”

“Amok, amok, amok,” Bilba intoned under her breath and giggled. “Alright,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and taking the boys’ other hands and giving them a shake, “deal” though the word came in a yawn.

“I think our turn is over,” Fili said. “I’ll go rouse Bifur and Bofur. You two make for the rolls.”

“Aye,” Kili said. “Come along, Bilba, or you won’t have the energy to march and march and march.”

It was energy she did indeed need, though not for steady-paced marching, but to keep up when they were happened upon by another wizard, Radaghast the Brown, with his eccentricity and giant rabbits unintentionally heralding the appearance of orcs riding wargs. Later, she would think fondly of the mad wizard, leading the monsters away as best as he was able like another kind of hero she read of in her storybooks. She hoped very much that she would get the chance to meet him again someday.

Before then, however, she had found herself being pressed in closer and closer by the mounted orcs, quite unable to consider how she would even use her sword against them.

Thorin made sure she was behind him and she thought that she just wanted kind words between them once more, _Just once more_. Until Gandalf’s head popped out from behind boulders and, quicker than her reasoning could account for, she was tossed down a stone lined hole, landing rough on her bottom, gathered almost immediately to Thorin’s chest after he and Kili jumped down after her.

A horn blew overhead and an orc corpse fell down amongst them, riddled with arrows. Then it was discovered there was a tunnel and lead somewhere, _anywhere else but here_ , the company following it out. Thorin held Bilba’s hand through the tunnel, only looking ahead, which Bilba would have analyzed the possible reasons for this behavior, or would have just demanded them, except she was so tired, limping after the quick pace the dwarven king made.

 _He’s angry, of course he’s angry_ , she thought. _I’m his burden on top of heavier ones. And, I’m not talking to him either_ , she remembered, scrubbing her eyes with her other hand, surely only making mud from the dirt on her face.  

The cavern led out into a valley, green and light as if winter and cold had never touched the place. In the distance, sun bleached stone buildings rose from the woods. After a rough exchange once again between Thorin and Gandalf, which came to Bilba’s ears as though muffled by rough wool, the peculiar group made its way down into the valley. Bilba and Thorin brought up the end of the descent, her hand still held fast by his.

After some words of greeting no one besides Gandalf and the elf he was talking to understood, the company found itself circled by more elves on large horses. Bilba was thrown behind Thorin once again and, with Ori, was planted firmly in the center of the group.

Misunderstandings, somewhat and eventually, cleared away, Bilba nudged her way through the mass of dwarf to make her salutations and gentle pleas to Lord Elrond.

Tapping sounded through the room, shocking Bilba from her memories.

“Oh,” she cried out, reaching for her towel, “just a moment!”

“Very well,” a female voice answered. Bilba scrambled out of the bath and dried herself, remembering that she could forego wrapping her hair up to dry. She quickly wrapped herself in a provided robe that felt all too thin and revealing compared to her thick dressing gown at home. She opened the door to find a regal looking elleth, except for the private smile she held as she looked down at the hobbit. “Lady Arwen! I did not think I would be able to see you!”

“Why not, my friend?” She asked, bending down for a hug.

“I was under the impression you would be seeing relatives elsewhere for a time, at least so I was told by your father when I saw him last.”

“At your mother’s funeral, yes,” Lady Arwen straightened up and nodded solemnly. “I was sorry I could not be there for you or to say goodbye myself.”

“Oh, no,” Bilba patted the elleth’s hand, a being thousands of years her senior, but still quite young it seemed, “please don’t fret. Mother passed peacefully and happy in her home, following after papa. I like to believe they’re happy together again and thinking us silly fools to pine away for those gone on.”

“I like that, too,” Arwen said, smiling though still a little sad. “I am glad you’re here. I didn’t think I would get to see you again, not after your father passed.”

“No more sad thoughts,” Bilba reminded her tall friend, squeezing her hand, “I’ve had quite enough of them of late and I would like to be distracted.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she said, then took a deep breath in and smiled a true smile for Bilba. “My father and brothers are looking forward to seeing you. Will you join us for supper?”

“I would love that more than anything,” Bilba said, pulling Arwen into the room. “Let me just get something…nicer on. Or at least cleaner. Let’s see…” Bilba went to where her pack was propped against the wall, thinking of where she might have stashed something else to wear. “I know I have something,” she mumbled, tapping her index finger against her lips.

Arwen, meanwhile, went to the room’s wardrobe and pulled out a green dress, lace in the place of normal sleeves and taking up most of the hem to still touch the ground, but would still make Bilba’s shins visible.

“What of this?” she asked, calling Bilba’s attention. “These are all your mother’s things, she designed and made them for her stay here. I think they would fit.”

“Oh my,” Bilba abandoned her effort at her _quite shabby, in comparison_ efforts and joined Arwen at the large casement. “These are far too lovely for the likes of me, I think.”

“Ridiculous,” the elleth said, tugging the collar of Bilba’s robe, letting Bilba know it was perfectly fine to get dressed in front of her. “Here, this will look perfect. All of them will. When you’re done with your adventure, you must come and have more time with them. With us.”

“I might,” Bilba said, pulling the dress over her head and tightening the ribbons at her back. Arwen steered her to a mirror and stooped to finish the lacings, letting Bilba look at herself. “It’s so lovely.”

“So are you,” Arwen said and stood. “I’m sure your travelling companions would agree.”

“As if they will get the chance,” Bilba snorted.

Which, of course, they did. As Arwen and Bilba walked out of the structure and onto a veranda a loud whistle, accompanied by some whoops came from behind the two women who turned and saw a troop of naked dwarves on the ground level below them. Bilba turned her head away, her face so red she feared she may pass out. Arwen merely looked down on them, bemused.

“My, oh, my,” Fili said.

“That cannot be our lady Bilba Baggins,” Kili chimed in.

“Our fealty for such beauty to look upon all my days!” The brothers sketched deep bows, causing Bilba to giggle behind her fingers and Dwalin to yank them up by their necks and lead them away.

“Their pardon,” Bofur said, taking his hat and putting it to more pertinent use. “Where are you off to?”

“Dinner,” Bilba said, letting her hands drop, though finding the sky a most interesting shade of blue, “with the royal family.”

“We shall send your regards,” said an unfamiliar voice, Bilba looked down and saw possibly the most beautiful elf— _No, being—_ in all of creation looking up at them. His hair and skin seemed to glow in the sunshine, against all the white marble.

“Who is that?” She hissed at Arwen.

“That,” Arwen replied, giving her friend a nudge with her knee, Bilba’s mouth snapped shut at the prompt, “is Lord Glorfindel. You’ve read about him.”

“I have indeed. He is here?” Arwen nudged Bilba again. “Oh, yes, thank you,” she said to the now amused elf. “I would appreciate that.”

“Perhaps, if you are willing,” he said. “After dinner I will give you a tour of the gardens?”

“I would like that,” Bilba replied.

Glorfindel inclined his head and accepted the shove from Bifur with equanimity, chuckling as he was pushed towards where Bilba assumed the dwarves were staying.

“Oi! What’s with all the flutters?” Kili said, breaking through the aura Glorfindel seemed to have presented.

“Let’s get some eats!” Gloin said, shoving the young and agitated dwarf.

“Aye!” The rest chorused, leaving the women to continue on their way.

“You seemed impressed with Lord Glorfindel,” Arwen said after some time.

“I’ve never seen a naked male before, that’s all,” Bilba said, looking straight ahead.

“Is that all?”

“No. I’ve also never before met such an ancient being. I must say I was quite shocked at seeing him among my dwarves and seeing them all naked at once was a shock.”

“That I agree with.”

“You don’t seem so bothered by…” Bilba waved her hand in the air.

“Nudity?” Arwen supplied. “No. There is so much time and so much perspective to be worried about things so trivial.”

“Pfft,” Bilba said. Arwen raised her brow looking at her. “If that were true, you all would be trooping around completely starkers. I’m sure your father wouldn’t have been terribly pleased at seeing all those naked men running around his home, to say nothing of how the other elves and elleths would feel. I think _you_ aren’t bothered by it…”

“Oh, shush. So, I suppose it wouldn’t bother you if one of your travelling companions found out you had been oggling a naked elven warrior,” Arwen said and continued before Bilba could do little else other than sputter, “Here we are!”

Dinner with Elrond and his family was lovely, possibly the most lovely thing Bilba had ever experienced in her life. They talked of her parents, of their relations in Lothlorien, even of the strange elves in Mirkwood, no longer the Greenwood as it turned out.

Bilba listened to their many stories and nearly nodded off when Glorfindel came to fulfill his promise of a tour.

“Glorfindel,” Elrond stood in welcome. “Here to spirit our hobbit away? I’m glad you’ve at least dressed for it.”

“I would hate for my new friend to faint on sight, or to meet my end at the hands of her betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” The three siblings said at once.

“Ridiculous,” Bilba muttered and took Glorfindel’s proffered hand. “Thank you for the meal and the company. I hope we’ll get the chance before my friends and I leave?”

“I hope so, as well,” Lord Elrond said and bowed his head as the two left.

“I don’t know you well enough to hurt you for that I suppose,” Bilba said once they were out of earshot, though she was sure they would hear it anyway.

“I would be more wounded to know I had affronted you in some way, my lady,” he replied.

“Oh, stop that. You’re just as bad as the dwarrow.”

“I thank you,” he inclined his head. “They are an exuberant and entertaining bunch. I am sorry I am not joining you for the rest of your journey.”

“I’m sure you would be welcome,” she said. “Gandalf could use someone like you to vex him along with Master Oakenshield and his nephews.”

“I might consider it, then. I thank you for the invitation.”

“So, where are we off to?”

“Originally, I had thought to show you the different types of gardens we have here, but I think you are too weary for it. Your journey thus far has been tumultuous, beyond orcs and wargs.”

A few beats past and Bilba, in her sleep-deprived mind, might not have acknowledged it, until his meaning came to her.

“That wasn’t a question, was it?”

“I’m old enough to understand much without many words spoken,” he said. “And, to get away with cheek, Mistress Baggins.”

“Bilba, please.”

“Bilba. Thank you. So, no. I will take you back to your room. Perhaps tomorrow I can keep my promise, or, if not I, have someone better suited show you the grounds.”

“Normally, I would take you to task for reneging on a promise, as I would anyone else, mind. But,” she yawned again and saw they were near her rooms, “you’re quite right. I would like to sleep, perhaps dream and forget, if only for a few hours.”

“You may never,” Glorfindel kneeled down and tipped his head in a small bow. “Though you certainly never will be able to heal if you do not attempt to treat your hurts.” He picked up her hand, giving it a kiss, then went on his way.

The sun had begun to set and Bilba went about getting ready for sleep. About to put the dress away, she, in a fit of homesickness and sadness clutched it to herself. She put it down on the bed, dressed in a nightgown, then got under her covers, pulling the dress into her arms.

“I miss you, mama,” she whispered to the fine material.

A few tears later, she was asleep.

~

“My dear, you look stunning!” Gandalf’s exclamation had brought the dwarven chatter to a halt and the company swiveled to see Miss Bilba Baggins, clean and indeed refreshed, dressed in a golden dress—though Thorin knew she would probably call it the color of sunshine—edged in amethyst designs that wisped and spiraled from the bottoms of the skirt, sleeves, and from the neckline. Her hair shined and entranced the dwarven king; he longed to push his fingers through the short tresses. He would make due with the beads.

“Thank you, Gandalf,” she said as the wizard guided her over to the feasting dwarrow, snapping him out of his reverie. “Mother made it,” her smile was becoming as she swished the fabric around her ankles. Looking the gray wizard up and down, she said, “You didn’t dress.”

“I never do,” he held out his hand for her to take, then lead her to a chair next to Balin.

“You do look lovely, my dear,” the old dwarf said. “Caught yourself a few gazers, in fact.”

“Oh,” Bilba’s cheeks flushed and ducked her head with a smile. “You all are just unused to lady-folk. The elleths quite eclipse me in more than just height.”

A harsh cough came from the head table, when Bilba turned to look, she saw Thorin take a great gulp of his wine.

“Not so, little lass,” Balin brought her attention back. “As lovely as these maids are, you outshine them. In my decades alive, I would go so far as to say you are one of the most beautiful women in all of Arda.”

Bilba knew not what to say to that. She attempted to return Balin’s smile, but felt faint from the exertion, but managed a curl at one of the corners of her lips. Balin patted her hand before turning back to talk himself into eating his salad. Bilba ran her fingers along the nearest edge of her plate for a moment, feeling the weight of Thorin’s eyes on her. After a moment, she sighed and began her meal with a few sips of her own wine.

The meal went on, her companions treating her with unintentional entertainment as they bemoaned the food and music, though she felt they were being as polite as they were able, given the ancient and tumulteuous relationship between the two races. She was able to also overhear a little of Lord Elrond’s discussion of Glamdring and Ocrist, wondering a little at what the history of her little sword might be, but thought she _could ask later, if it plays on my mind overmuch during our stay_.

Lord Elrond rose to sweep out of the room, stopping first to bid Bilba a lovely evening and to extract a promise of conversation later.

“I would like that, my Lord. Perhaps tomorrow? I feel I have been neglecting my friends.”

“Of course, of course,” he said and left with Gandalf following soon after.

“You’ve missed a great deal, lass,” Bofur said. “Fountain romping, dwarves swooning,” he gave Kili a shake, “and our setting up camp. You’ll be joinin’ us, o’course, aye?”

“Ah, well,” Bilba said. “I’ve been given a private room, my parents’ actually, when they stayed here. My mother was very adventuresome, you see,” Bilba pitched her voice higher to be heard over the suddenly grumbling dwarves, with narrowed eyes for her and their elven attendants. “She visited here with Gandalf after she came of age. When she married my father, they visited here for part of their honeymoon. It was all very lovely, I’m told.”

“Sure, sure,” Bofur said, as amiable as always. “We’ll just have to make it up right now. With a song, perhaps?”

Bofur’s mouth twitched in a sly grin before he hopped on the table, kicking the bowls of salad and glasses of wine about as he danced and sang,

There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn

beneath an old grey hill,

And there they brew a beer so brown

That the Man in the Moon himself came down

one night to drink his fill.

 

The ostler has a tipsy cat

that plays a five-stringed fiddle;

And up and down he saws his bow

Now squeaking high, now purring low,

now sawing in the middle.

 

So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,

a jig that would wake the dead:

He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,

While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:

‘It’s after three!’ he said.

Bilba was caught up in deciding whether she should be mortified or not, but laughed all the same when food began flying. She ducked under the table, stooping low enough to walk beneath the din and made her way past the aghast Lindir and away from the second food melee she’d witnessed in her lifetime. Turning to look back, she caught Thorin’s eye and beat her hasty retreat even more hastily.

After composing herself, making sure her dress was intact and unsmudged, she wandered the grand, sculpted halls of Rivendell on her own. Every now and then she stopped to admire the various murals depicting some of the great stories her mother told her at bedtime. She passed by a broken blade and wondered at it a moment, before being caught up in the heady smell of roses, lavender, and lilac coming from one of the many gardens. She would take her rest whenever she found a particularly lovely spot under a willow tree or amongst patches of hydrangea, sometimes making conversation with any of the inhabitants who came across her. Though she spent a great deal of her reverie thinking of how she missed her friends and missed the low timber of one in particular.

She was sorry to have abandoned all of them when they first arrived at their temporary haven. Being around so many folk made her happy to no longer be alone and adrift, she liked being able to learn brand new things, but it was almost like it was too much. She was alone for so long, then suddenly she was swept up in a group, it was almost too much at times. Not to mention a certain king who had her so confused, annoyed, then comforted in a delirious concoction of emotions, she

had to pick on her previous acquaintance with the elven lord _as abrupt as that was_. Laying back under the bower of a willow tree, enjoying the streaks of oranges and pinks against a purpling sky as the sunset, she rolled her eyes at herself. _Being chased by orcs and wargs certainly puts propriety into perspective_. She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep when she opened her eyes again it had become a little past dusk. She stood and shook her dress out, then made her way back to some steps and verandas, walking slowly to still enjoy the beautiful valley at night.

“Of course I was going to tell you,” Gandalf said on a lower walkway with, it appeared to be Lord Elrond. Bilba stood close enough to the edge to see, but far enough away to remain somewhat hidden. “I was waiting for this very chance. And really, I – I think you can trust that I know what I am doing.” 

Suddenly, she was appalled with herself for considering to listen in on a conversation between their host and her old friend, and was quite surprised when she bumped into someone’s chest as she tried to back away. Large hands took hold of her upper-arms and kept her pinned, out of the corner of her eye she could make out the curtain of thick, black hair belonging to Thorin Oakenshield.

“Do you?” Elrond asked. “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What will happen if your plan should fail? If you wake that beast…” 

“But if we succeed! What if the dwarves take back the mountain, then our defenses in the east will be strengthened.”

Bilba turned as much as she could to see that his face bore the countenance of stern stone, though his fingers flexed on her arms.

“It’s a dangerous move, Gandalf.”

“It is also dangerous to do nothing!  Oh, come – the throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright!  What is it you fear?”

“Have you forgotten, a strain of madness runs deep in that family.  His grandfather lost his mind.  His father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall? Gandalf, these decisions to not rest with us alone.  It is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-earth.”

Thorin wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cheek to the crown of her head, and hugged her before abruptly releasing her and striding away into one of the darkened passages.

“Thorin,” she said in as loud a quiet voice as she could, “Thorin, wait, please.”

His steps maintained a constant stride, forcing her into a run. When she was close enough, she grabbed his hand in both of hers and tried to keep up. He stopped and tried to gently pry her hands from his.

“Bilba, please.”

“No, Thorin. Let’s talk, please? We need to.”

“Do you not understand already?”

“That’s been the whole problem,” she shook her head. “We need to talk. We need to understand each other better.”

“Now you know enough about me to flee back home,” his voice was rough, his eyes narrowed on her and she gulped. Breathing deep he continued in a softer, pleading tone. “Madness runs through my blood, I do not know if I will be able to control it if I re-enter those halls. I do not know what I will do.” He made to remove her fingers once more when he shook her head again and tugged on his arm. Acquiescing, he thought he may yet enjoy her company for a little longer before she came to her senses and left him or let him leave her here, _Where it is safe, where she can be happy_.

She lead him further down the passage, to the other side and onto yet another balcony. She sat against one of the side railings and tugged once on his arm again, urging him to sit next to her. She took hold of his left hand as if to keep him from escaping. Or to keep him from not dragging her along in his wake should he try to run away again, took a deep breath.

“I’ve found I quite miss your voice and, sometimes,” she ducks her head, “your touch. We still don’t know each other very well, Thorin, but I want to be your friend. Can we try?”

He blinked a few times and swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, “Try?”

“Talk to me. Help me understand you and your ways. My books, nor the books in all of middle earth—as great as they are—could compare to listening to you.”

“You know of the histories from your books, from Balin that night, from our _esteemed_ host. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“I know the ‘wherefores’ of your worry, but tell me exactly _what_ you worry.”

He thought for some minutes, feeling them pass like hours, while he endeavored to think of some great poetic way of explaining his feelings to her. Poetry never had sway in his life, there was no time for it, no reason. He breathed out heavily.

“You. I worry for you,” he looked at the wall opposite them. His words came slow, pondering. “That you will be killed, that I will have to bury your bones in a foreign field, far from your home or mine. A hot stone lodged itself in my throat when those trolls held you, despite your quick thinking,” at this he smiled, “they do not compare to the horrors of a dragon.”

He lifted his face to hers, looking her in the eyes, marveling at their beauty as he continued. “I cringe to think of you torn and broken at my hands because of a madness making me into a monster I cannot comprehend.”

She took a breath to speak, except he continued, needing to push every ugly thing out of his heart, as heavy or trivial as they are.

“What’s more, I worry that you will find comfort and affection in another.”

“What? In who else could I find what you’re offering?”

“Either of my nephews. They are closer to you in age, in spirit as well, apparently!”

She looked at him, her eyes wide and incredulous, her mouth open slightly.

“Those are many worries, Master Oakenshield,” she allowed and squeezed his hand. “And, as many of them are unfounded as of yet. The latter one, especially.”

After a moment of thought, she dropped his hand, which he looked mournfully at, until she got up on her knees cupped his face in her palms.

“Your nephews are dear friends to me when I was alone,” she said and pushed her thumb against his lips when he looked about to speak. “But, neither they or I would be willing to sting and wound you thus. No, I don’t feel for your nephews any fraction of the mere potential of feelings I have for you. As for the dragon and dragon-sickness, well, I’m afraid I cannot offer more than a promise that we will see what happens, and that, no matter what, I will stand by you. You have my loyalty. Always.” She butted her forehead against his and they stayed that way awhile.

“Just your friend?” He said finally. She laughed and rolled her head against his.

“There’s no such thing as ‘just a friend.’ Friends are important and I always thought that, if I did find someone to marry, I would want him to be my best friend and my love rolled into one.”

“There is a lot of ‘ifs’ in that,” his eyes round and earnest. Bilba looked into them for a long while, savoring their close distance and she could see, beyond the different shades of blue of his eyes, the vulnerability he felt, the weakness he must always feel brought so near the surface.

“Oh, Thorin,” she whispered and pushed her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her tight against his chest, shifting her to kneel between his bent legs.

After a few sniffles from her and his shoulders easing of tension, she threaded her fingers into his hair and found a new indulgence greater than thick chocolates or rich wine. She scratched gently at his scalp and his shoulders tensed again.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, “and yet, not.” Bilba pulled back and looked again into his eyes, still vulnerable, but crinkled in the corners from a smile she was much to near to see. She sighed, “I feel I should also apologize for all the ‘ifs,’ but not at the same time. I don’t mean to be contrary,” she said when huffed, “but, this is new for me.”

“For me, as well,” he said.

“Yes. Don’t you think we should, truly, become accustumed to one another? Decide if we are both what we want.”

“You are what I want,” he tightened his arms around her.

“You say that,” she said and squirmed in his hold. “You said that before, then pushed me to run away, run home. A few minutes ago, you expected me to flee from you after overhearing a heated discussion,” she looked down and away. Then in a whisper, “How can you want me and do that?”

Thorin’s arms loosened and she sank to sit on her heels, still looking anywhere but him. He hooked his finger under her chin and drew her face up, though her eyes remained elsewhere.

“Bilba. I want you safe,” he sighed, cupping her face. “You are right. We must prove ourselves to one another. I most especially must prove myself to you. Will you let me?”

She dared a glance at him, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” he chuckled and smiled, happy to see her looking at him once more. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed me?” She said with an incredulous laugh, her full attention on him once more. “You don’t know me and I don’t know—”

She was silenced when his lips landed on hers. She made an indignant noise and kept her eyes open, quite unsure whether to smack him or…really, she wasn’t sure what she should do at all. His eyes slowly opened and he moved a breath away.

“Staring is rude,” he said then covered her mouth again. The kiss was closed, but warm. Soft. All thoughts left her mind when she decided to let instincts take sway. Her eyes closed and she tilted her head. He hummed and renewed his kiss with a small smacking noise, still chaste, though pressing in. He moved away again just as her mouth opened, and rested his head against hers once more.

“I think that’s what it means,” he said, after a moment of heavy breathing.

“What?” She was dazed and opened her eyes. She blinked a few times and saw his weak smile and closed eyes, clearly savoring the moment they had. She smacked his chest and glared at him.

“Stop that! You take such liberties.”

“I can’t help it. You make me giddy.”

“I make you many things, evidently.”

He breathed a laugh, his eyes opening.

“It means we will be closer. Never too far. I swear it. Then we will learn of one another. I will not push further, again, without your permission. That I also swear.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I was tired of your argument; it had grown stale.” She smacked his chest again. “And, I may have been thinking on it for some time.”

She huffed.

“You’re lucky I don’t do to you what I did to the hobbit-lad who became too soused after a game of ‘I Never,’” she tapped his cheeks with both her hands. “Goodness, our conversations do take their turns, don’t they?”

“I have a few questions of my own now, Miss Baggins,” his voice became low, but there was a thread of humor lying beneath it. She smirked and stood, stretching her arms over her head while cracking her toes against the pavement.

“I’m tired,” she then stretched out her hand to him, “Will you walk me to my room?”

He stood and took her hand, tucking it in his elbow. He had enjoyed the light flirting, the soft kiss even more. That she had not slapped him was nice, though he might have enjoyed that for the distraction it would have been. Even with her at his side now, in the silence of the night, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had frightened her, if she was frightened at all. Of him, he thought, _Barring the dragon, of course._

His mind had turned to brooding, darkness deeper and colder than that of the night they walked through, his brow furrowed and mouth turned down in a firm frown. He had not realized how far or how long they had walked, if she had taken to leading him instead of his escorting her, when she stood a-tip-toe and pressed a small kiss to the corner of his lips. He hooked his arm around her waist and kept her close before he knew what he was doing, the motion as natural as keeping his head above water, or making the attempt. She took his chin between her fingers and thumb in response.

“I made a promise to you—twice, actually. I will keep it,” she pinched his chin gently, “and you will not stand in my way again. Do you understand, Master Oakenshield.?”

He blinked at her, not quite comprehending for a moment, then he smiled and nodded.

“You don’t smile enough,” she said, going back down onto the flats of her feet and releasing him. “I’d like to see that change, as well.”

“For you,” he pressed his other hand to his chest.

“In time, I’m sure. I don’t expect it all at once.”

“For you,” he said again, “and with you, it will be much easier than without.”

She ducked her head, though he saw the quick grin and blush rising from her cheeks to her ears. Looking at him once more, she took his fist still planted on his chest, holding it between her small hands.

“My friend,” she said, squeezing it, then removed herself. With a fond glance, she entered her room and closed the door without so much as a thud. Thorin resisted pressing his forehead against the wood, resisted sitting at her door until morning. It took longer than he would like to think on, though he did not try to guess how long he stood at her door.

He forced himself to move on and find his campsite and companions. Dwalin was on watch with Dori when he approached, both bid their king a goodnight—a nod from Dori, an insolent smirk from Dwalin—then he went into his bedroom.

Thorin did think of what Lord Elrond had said of him and a little of how Gandalf attempted to defend him. Mostly, he thought of the soft, firm declaration of the woman who had so ensnared his heart and mind.

As he lay in the soft bed, he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering to her. How their conversations, as they often did, waved and ebbed in temper and passion. How this bed would never be as soft as she. How the ground that he will be sleeping on in the coming weeks will be a greater comfort with her nearby. There was a niggling whisper of how she would be a distraction to him, to his quest and birthright. But, another whisper countered it, _Perhaps that is good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should, like, check out [my blog](http://capesandteapots.tumblr.com) and stuff. Maybe bother me with questions and adorations, I dunno.


	8. Bustin' that Fourth Wall, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't help me some gratuitous fourth wall breakage with our favie merc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Anyhoover...

I deleted my previous chapter eight so I could be sneaky and rewrite the update without spamming you guys with non-chapters. 

I decided not to dismantle this work, chapter by chapter, as it would be confusing in terms of the work as a whole until I finished it and the comments. I didn't want to delete it because, well, because I still like it, but mostly because I didn't want to be rid of you guys and your wonderful, inspiring comments. So, I made this work the part 1 of a "series" called Early Findings. The actual story is called ["Buried Knowledge Found"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608972) (unless I end up hating that title, then I'll change it and this), which I think has more potential and is more mine, than not. 

I'm so glad for the people who've enjoyed this story, too. I just got blocked on it and needed to start again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Onward, to justice! 
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> Or, to the next fic 
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> ....doesn't have to be mine.


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